


Where the Summer Goes

by notlucy



Series: MCU Kink Bingo - NotLucy [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Asthmatic Steve Rogers, Awkward Crush, Awkward Flirting, Awkwardness, Background Relationships, Blow Jobs, Bruce Banner Smokes Marijuana, But Bucky Barnes is not, College, Drinking, Feelings, Gratuitous use of Grease lyrics, Hair-pulling, Hallucinogens, Hand Jobs, Human Disaster Bucky Barnes, M/M, Making Out, Marijuana, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Natasha Romanov/Wanda Maximoff (Background), Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Bucky Barnes, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Ridiculous, Self-Esteem Issues, Steve Rogers is definitely a virgin, Stubborn Steve Rogers, Summer, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, but in a cute way, everyone is awkward
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-02-12 15:19:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12962283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notlucy/pseuds/notlucy
Summary: Bucky has four weeks of summer vacation left. He's not letting his guilty conscience over some stupid kid ruin his plans for lounging by the pool and doing absolutely nothing. Except for the part where that'sexactlywhat he's doing.





	1. Summer fling, don't mean a thing

It was hot. The kind of humid, sticky hot that came when July bled into August and the air started to stagnate, breezes a faint memory, everything slick and damp and muggy. So it only made sense that Bucky would want to spend the last days of his summer break lounging by the pool at his parents’ house on Long Island, sunning himself like a cat, taking a dip in the cool water when things became unbearable.

After all, he had just under a month left before he was set to begin his sophomore year at Rutgers. And so what if it was his fifth choice school after Yale, Columbia, Cornell, and Dartmouth turned him down. _Him._ James B. Barnes. Tarnished golden son of George and Winnie Barnes, world-class attorneys at law. How had they ended up with such a lazy, good-for-nothing kid, they’d like to know (and had asked him often). Their firstborn, who crushed their hopes of the Ivy League and ended up in Jersey.

Oh well. They still had Becca. Becca, with her straight As and her straight teeth and her fourteen different extracurriculars. Becca was going to _Harvard_ and Becca was just _so polite_ and Becca hadn’t been caught dealing pot out of her backpack junior year of high school like _some_ children George and Winnie had brought into this world.

Whatever. Not a productive line of thought. He had other things to focus on. Like his pool. His headphones. His Ray-Bans. His tan.

Not that he could think about any of that thanks to the sound of the goddamn house painter hauling his squeaky ladder around.

Because in their infinite wisdom, George and Winnie had hired some schmuck kid - the son of a friend of a friend, apparently - to paint their house. Their gigantic house. By himself. In hundred degree heat.

They were real humanitarians, his folks.

Bucky was finding it _difficult_ to enjoy his morning of doing absolutely fuck-all when every time he opened his eyes he saw the kid sweating it out with a roller and a bucket of the world’s most boring eggshell white.

Skinny, blond, hanging precariously off the ladder. Idiot. He’d probably fall. Or faint. One or the other, considering the temperature.

He was giving Bucky a guilty conscience.

Bucky _hated_ that feeling. How was he supposed to enjoy a swim when that poor chump was seconds away from falling to his death? And God, he was little. Considering his size, it would probably take him the rest of Bucky’s precious summer to get the house painted.

Bucky’s parents sucked.

* * *

The kid took a break eventually, leaving the ladder up against the house and crossing the yard to one of the big trees near the fence. He sat down in the shade and proceeded to pull an honest-to-God brown paper bag out of his backpack. Was he an actual Dickensian orphan? Bucky was going to die. He couldn’t stand it anymore.

So he got to his feet, not even the slightest bit self-conscious as he walked over in his bare feet and navy blue swim trunks, forgoing a shirt because it was his house, after all. And fuck, the kid was eating maybe the saddest sandwich Bucky had ever seen. Two slices of Wonder Bread with peanut butter in between them, absolutely no jelly. No wonder he was so skinny.

“Hey…” Bucky said, fumbling. He was pretty sure his parents had told him the guy’s name, but now he couldn’t remember. Because he was an asshole.

“It’s Steve,” Steve supplied.

“Uh, yeah,” Bucky said. “Hi, Steve. You can eat in the house if you want.”

Steve glanced down at his paint-splattered shorts and t-shirt, smiling wryly before shaking his head. “No thanks.”

“Okay…” Kind of weird, but sure. “You want some water or something?” he offered instead.

“Nope,” Steve said, indicating the full bottle at his side.

“I mean, I could get you ice for that…” he attempted, and why did he even _care_? Stupid, _stupid_ guilt.

“I’m good, thanks so much,” Steve said with a bit more finality. Like Bucky was somehow unreasonable in asking him. Steve, it seemed, was the kind of guy who looked gift horses in the mouth, and Bucky was done offering.

“Suit yourself,” Bucky replied.

“Will do, boss.” Steve was almost smirking at him, and then he gave him a mock salute. Which...was this guy _serious right now_?

“Hey, cool,” Bucky snapped, annoyed. What kind of stubborn prick turned down ice water? “You wanna suck my dick instead?”

Okay, he wasn’t proud of that. He’d meant it to come out cool and unbothered like he didn’t give a shit. Instead, it came out peevish and annoyed because Steve had gotten to him. Bucky didn’t get ‘gotten’ to, damn it. He was the one doing the getting. Or whatever.

One corner of Steve’s mouth turned up and he raised an eyebrow before taking another bite of his sandwich. “No thanks,” he said. “You wanna suck mine?”

Bucky blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that. But. Okay. If this asshole thought he’d never sucked a dick before, he had another thing coming. Bucky Barnes was a fucking professional. He’d been giving head since he was fifteen years old and he was _damn_ good at it.

So he shrugged. “Yeah, okay.”

Steve hid his surprise well, but Bucky caught a brief flicker passing across his face before he played it down, shrugging, just as casually as Bucky. “Cool,” he said. “Right now?”

If it was a game of one-upmanship, Bucky was going to win. “Sure,” he said. “Might as well do it here, since you won’t come in the house.”

(And yeah, okay, he was lucky Becca had a job and they had a privacy fence, but if Steve was going to be a jerk about Bucky’s hospitality, Bucky could be a jerk right back.)

“Alright, then,” Steve said, popping the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth and getting to his feet. He wiped his hands on his stained shirt and looked at Bucky expectantly.

Damn it if Bucky didn’t find that the slightest bit endearing.

Finding Steve endearing was not part of the plan. So he scowled, taking a step closer to crowd the kid up against the tree. His baser instincts were screaming at him, wanting him to show Steve he was bigger and tougher than him. That stupid voice faded when Steve’s eyes widened and Bucky realized he was actually nervous. Like he might be expecting Bucky to do something cruel. Hit him or worse. Shit. He hadn’t meant to do that.

Instinctively, he dropped to his knees. Steve let out the breath he’d been holding in a big whoosh of air. Bucky didn’t want to think about why he’d gotten so tense, why he was so prickly and defensive. So he brought a hand up to pop the button on Steve’s worn cargo shorts instead, pushing his shirt up and dragging down the zipper. The shorts were too big for him, and it only took one tug to get them down, leaving Steve clad in his plain, white boxers.

“Ahh…hey,” Steve managed, as though he’d maybe thought Bucky was kidding about the whole thing.

Bucky pulled back, looking up at him from under his lashes in the way he knew most guys liked. He’d been told it was cute. Bucky prided himself on being real fucking cute. He got away with a lot more that way. “You want me to stop?” he asked, chewing on his bottom lip.

Steve hesitated, his cheeks flushed pink. “I...no,” he said quietly. “But I’m not…”

Bucky raised an eyebrow before hooking his index and middle fingers into the waistband of Steve’s boxers. He pulled the material away from his body and noted the problem with a grin. “Huh. Performance anxiety?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Steve said gruffly, trying to jerk away. Bucky held on tight.

“Aw, c’mon,” Bucky said. He could get Steve hard. Just had to get him over the nerves. “Bet I can help.”

He didn’t give Steve the chance to overthink it as he leaned in to close the gap, nosing against the hair at the base of Steve’s prick, breathing him in. He smelled like paint and sweat and musk. Something masculine that Bucky would definitely not be jerking off to later, thank you very much. He just kind of liked it when guys smelled like they’d done a day's work, was all.

“Shhhit,” Steve hissed, his head falling back against the tree trunk. Bucky took the opportunity to swipe his tongue out for a taste, running it along Steve’s length. Steve’s cock twitched in immediate interest, and Bucky wasn’t going to argue with results, so he did it again. It didn’t take much to get Steve hard, all told. Some kissing and teasing and licking, a little attention paid to the balls and there he was, springing into action. So to speak. As a connoisseur of all things dick-related, Bucky found that he liked Steve’s just fine. Average length, maybe on the smaller side, cut, with just a bit of a curve. It was, well, he’d call it cute, but he didn’t think Steve would take that as a compliment.

So he wrapped his mouth around it instead, flicking his tongue against the slit as he used both hands to push Steve’s boxers down to his ankles. Steve had gotten over his earlier reservations, his breath coming heavy and fast as he made a funny little moaning sound in the back of his throat. Bucky liked that sound. It was a good sound. He was proud of himself for being the cause of it.

Bucky moved his right hand up to circle the base of Steve’s cock with his thumb and forefinger before sliding his mouth down as far as he could get it. It was pretty far because he was a talented guy. And yeah, he could probably swallow Steve, considering his size, but he needed to work up to something like that. Also, maybe Steve didn’t deserve all of Bucky’s talents. He’d turned down ice water, after all.

But Steve was sweet in spite of all that. Bucky could feel Steve’s heartbeat pulsing in time with the vein atop his tongue. He hummed a little, low in his throat, gratified when Steve inhaled sharply. Bucky would have smiled if his mouth hadn’t been otherwise occupied, and he began to bob his head in a steady rhythm, along with his hand, trying to figure out just what else Steve liked.

Eventually, Steve’s moaning turned into something coherent, his bitten back cries starting to form actual words. One word in particular bled through with some frequency. “Please...please...please…”

That was...cute? Yes, cute. Another cute Steve thing. Bucky didn’t know what he was pleading for, but as long as the plea involved Bucky’s mouth and his ability to swallow, he was sure he could fulfill it.

Bucky wasn’t expecting it when Steve’s hand came down to grab his hair, pushing at the back of his head. So he spluttered in surprise, causing Steve to jerk his hand away like he’d been burned. As though he’d done something wrong. Which, yeah, the timing hadn’t been great, and a guy liked a little warning, but Bucky hadn’t _hated_ it.

He didn’t always like it, sometimes it freaked him out if the guy was too intense. But Steve, hell, he was little. Bucky could get away from him easily enough. And maybe there was a part of him that was curious about what it would be like to be face-fucked by Steve. Ugh, now he was going to have to jerk off to _that_ idea later, too.

“Sorry, sorry…” Steve panted, and he sounded so fucking guilty that Bucky almost rolled his eyes. He didn’t appreciate apologies during his suck jobs. Reaching up with his free hand, he sought out Steve’s arm, dragging it back and maneuvering his palm so it was carefully arranged against the back of Bucky’s head once more.

Pulling away just enough that he could talk, he looked up at Steve with a gleam in his eyes. “Be fucking careful,” he said. “If you choke me, I’ll bite your dick off.”

Steve’s eyes widened. Bucky plunged back down before the idiot could formulate a response. As it turned out, he didn’t have anything to worry about. Steve was spectacularly lousy at directing a blowjob. That was mostly because he didn’t seem to have much control of his reactions. Or any sense of rhythm. He pulled Bucky’s hair a lot, thrusting against him artlessly, and any initial seduction techniques Bucky might have been employing seemed for naught as he realized that this kid had all the experience of a wet mop and he was going to blow his load frustratingly quickly.

Steve lasted less than ten minutes, coming with a bitten back yelp and no warning whatsoever. Bucky pulled away when he realized what was happening, which meant he got the last bit of Steve’s bitter spunk right across his cheek. “Aw, shit,” he said, swallowing what was in his mouth before sitting back on his heels.

“Sorry…” Steve said, breathless. Apparently, that was all he knew how to say, as he leaned against the tree and cupped a protective hand over his softening cock.

“It’s fine,” Bucky replied. And it was, mostly. He wasn’t going to lecture Steve on appropriate blowjob warning etiquette because nobody wanted to be lectured in the aftermath of an orgasm. Plus, Steve looked kind of sweet, all debauched and pink-cheeked, shorts pooled around his ankles and his lips bitten raw.

Bucky took the opportunity to wipe the jizz off his cheek with the back of his hand, which he then rubbed on the grass. He couldn’t help staring as Steve hitched his boxers back up, though of course, Steve glared at him just for looking.

“What?” Steve snapped. Jee-suz, so much for gratitude.

“Nothing,” Bucky said immediately, getting to his feet and brushing himself off. Gross. His knees were a disaster, indented with the patterns of the grass and the twigs that had been underneath them. Eh, that’s what showers were for. “You’re welcome.”

“Oh,” Steve said, reaching down for his shorts, his face bright red. “Sorry. I mean, um, thanks.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. “It’s cool. I’ll uh...let you get back to work.”

“Yup. Thanks.”

Steve was a weird kid. Bucky wasn’t going to think about him for the rest of the day. Nope, he was going to go inside, shower, play video games, fuck around on the Internet, and definitely not spend any time thinking about Steve.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, he approached Steve’s ladder holding two cold bottles of water and a paintbrush he’d grabbed from the garage. It took Steve a second to notice him, but when he did, he scowled.

“Oh my God,” Bucky said. “Would you just get down here?”

Steve looked as though he might want to argue about it, but his better angels apparently won out and he descended the ladder to take the water Bucky was offering.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “I uh...you don’t have to help me. If you feel like...guilty. Or whatever.”

“Shut the fuck up, Steve,” Bucky replied. “It’s my house, I can paint it if I want to.”

There was a tiny flicker of a smile at the corner of Steve’s mouth, and he glanced down as he twisted the cap off his water. “Okay,” he agreed. “Thanks.”

“Not charity,” Bucky said. “My house.”

Another little smile, Steve looking up at him. He seemed kind of sheepish and Bucky wasn’t sure why until he opened his mouth.

“So uh...your name’s James, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated. Also, my ask box is eternally open on Tumblr. I'm at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com).


	2. 'Til Ten O'Clock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky can't get Steve out of his head. Luckily, there's plenty more house to paint.

Bucky, man of his word, man of honor, helped Steve paint until he knocked off about four-thirty, mumbling something about missing his train if he didn’t.

They didn’t talk about the blowjob. Probably for the best. By the time Steve started walking towards the train station, Bucky half-believed it had been a fever dream and hadn’t happened at all.

Once Steve was gone, he headed into the house, taking his second shower of the day before flopping down on the couch in the den to watch a movie. He’d just gotten to the good part when he heard the garage door opening, then shutting, then the sounds of Becca’s feet pounding up the stairs and his mother doing something in the kitchen.

“Bucky,” she called out a few minutes later, and it was like she _knew_ Uma Thurman was about to murder the shit out of the Crazy 88s. “Come help me with the groceries.”

Ugh.

“Mooooooom,” he groaned, rolling his eyes as he paused the movie and got to his feet, trudging from the den to the kitchen. (The whole stupid house was ‘open concept,’ so he didn’t have far to go.)

“What? You’ve been sitting on your rear end all day. You can help me for five minutes.”

Untrue, _Winnie_. Bucky had been doing _manual labor_ all day. He had _blisters_. And he would have told her so, but a small part of him worried that it might compromise Steve’s employment. So he huffed and grabbed a carton of milk instead.

“Who’s that kid?” he asked, aiming for nonchalant as he opened the fridge.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” she said, unpacking a couple boxes of bran flakes (ew ew _ew_ ) and muesli (gag).

“The kid…” Bucky said, waving his hand around after he stuck the milk in the door. “The uh. Painting kid. Steve?”

“Oh. His mother goes to church with one of our paralegals.”

Bucky’s mother was good at dodging the question. Probably why people paid so much to have her as their attorney.

“Uh huh,” Bucky said, going back for the orange juice (with _pulp_ , ugh, gross). “Why’s he painting our house, though?”

“Deb put a flyer up in the breakroom for him,” she said, crossing to the pantry to put the cereal away. “Guess he’s trying to start a business or something. Your dad and I wanted to get the house...oh, damn it, we already had bran flakes.”

( _Because nobody likes bran flakes, Mom,_ Bucky didn’t say.)

“He’s uh, doing a good job.” Because Steve was, even if Bucky still didn’t understand the logic of having his little skinny self paint their entire gigantic house.

“Oh yeah?” Winnie said. “Hey, do you want pasta tonight? I got that pesto sauce you two like.”

“Yeah,” Bucky replied, Steve momentarily forgotten.

“Great. Wash your hands, and you can set the table.” Shit. She’d trapped him with chores. “And hey, your dad and I still want to see your schedule for next semester tonight, okay?”

(Honestly, you flunk _one_ class, and suddenly everyone wants to know your fucking business. On the plus side, they had a big fight about it over dinner, which was quality entertainment for everyone involved. Or so Bucky told himself.)

* * *

Steve was back the next day, arriving bright and early. So early, in fact, that the sound of his ladder was the first thing Bucky heard when he finally deigned to open his eyes at ten twenty-two. Cool. He was going to hide in the house and ignore Steve completely.

So, of course, he found himself outside with a paintbrush again twenty minutes later, looking up at Steve and shielding his eyes from the sun.

Steve noticed him and frowned immediately. “You don’t gotta keep doing that…”

Bucky shrugged. “Doing it anyway.”

Steve pursed his lips, eyes narrowing. God, Bucky liked his face. “You can do the trim, then. The paintbrush does a lousy job on the siding.”

Bossy. Bucky briefly considered arguing. Ended up shrugging and giving him a mock-salute that mimicked Steve’s gesture from the day before. “Whatever you say, boss,” he said. Steve’s grip faltered on the ladder, which Bucky took as a win.

They didn’t talk much, mostly because they were working on different parts of the house. Bucky really had gotten a few blisters the day before, which ached as he worked. They were annoying but, truthfully, he was a little proud. Blisters were cool - like he’d accomplished something. He was pretty sure Steve’s hands would be rough from work, too. Calloused. His thoughts briefly wandered into the realm of how Steve’s hands might feel if they were wrapped around his prick...probably really good, actually, if he used a little lube and...

Nope, it was Tuesday. Becca was home. He wasn’t going down that path. That way led only to ruin.

Around one, Steve finished up the section he was working on and started pulling the ladder down.

“Lunch?” Bucky asked, and damn it if he didn’t have some sort of Pavlovian response to that.

“No,” Steve said. “I’m leaving. Got another thing to do this afternoon.”

“That’s a real shoddy work ethic,” Bucky said, teasing him a little.

It wasn’t taken well, Steve’s eyes flashing as he smacked his hand against the ladder, slamming the safety lock into place. He was pissed - Bucky briefly wondered if he was about to start breathing fire.

“Whoa.” Bucky held his hands up in front of him. “I’m teasing, geez. I uh...do whatever you want.”

Steve grunted, leaning the ladder up against the house and scowling as he held out a hand. “Gimme your brush. I’m gonna clean up.”

Bucky did as he was told.

* * *

It rained cats and dogs on Wednesday and Thursday. Everything sucked. Couldn’t swim, couldn’t tan. No Steve. He went to the movies instead, some shit thing about fast cars, ‘roided up dudes, and hot girls. It was aggressively fine.

Mostly, he found himself thinking about Steve. How he was a puzzle box of prickliness with a chip on his shoulder the size of a brick. How much Bucky liked him anyway and wanted to get past those walls. Because people _liked_ Bucky. Bucky was likable, goddammit, and he was going to wear Steve down.

Friday dawned bright and sunny, which meant Steve was back on the ladder. Bucky was ready with his charm offensive, swaggering right up at ten forty-five with his brush and a smile on his face.

“Mornin’, Stevie,” he greeted.

Steve, who was painting the side of the garage, looked up at him from under all that floppy hair (and Christ, who let him have _eyelashes_ like that?) and scowled. Because of course he did. “It’s _Steve_.”

Jesus. “Right. Steve,” Bucky said. “Listen, I got a proposition for you.”

Steve hesitated, eyes flicking down to Bucky’s shorts, then back up to his face warily. Idiot - it wasn’t that kind of proposition, and Bucky had to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

“Way I see it, I’ve been helping you out all week. You’re probably ahead of schedule on the whole...painting the house thing.”

“I missed two days…”

“Act of God,” Bucky said with a flippant shrug. “Doesn’t count. Moving on, you owe me a little time, seeing as how I’m not getting paid for this.”

A frown marred Steve’s features, which was possibly the least surprising thing to happen. Ever. Bucky briefly wondered if he’d ever get a genuine smile out of him.

“I’m not sucking you off,” Steve said flatly.

“Jeeee-sus,” Bucky said, barking out a laugh because Steve had caught him off-guard with that one. “You’re so...I’m _asking_ you to hang _out,_ Steve.”

The idea was apparently enough of a shock that Steve stammered a bit before responding. “Hang out?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “When we’re done today. We can watch a movie. Hang out. You know, like people do?”

Steve, an alien from a planet where there were no other lifeforms, squinted at Bucky incredulously. “...here?”

“No, let’s go to fuckin’ Jersey. Of course here.”

“I…” he hesitated. “My ma’s expecting me home for dinner…”

That threw Bucky for a loop. Theoretically, Bucky knew Steve had a mother. The mere fact that he was there painting their house lent credence to the whole “mother” thing, being that Steve’s mother knew Deb-the-paralegal, who had put the flyer up in the breakroom that had attracted Winifred Barnes. But _still_ , the idea that this snitty little son-of-a-gun had a _mother_ who loved him just weirded Bucky out. Honestly, it would make more sense if Steve went to live in a cave at night, where he could be sullen and snarky to anyone who dared trespass on his territory.

“So call her and tell her you’re hanging out with a friend,” he chirped.

“I dunno…”

“Ah, c’mon.” He didn’t have a better argument than that, so he gave Steve a big, patented Bucky Barnes smile instead. The kind of smile that won hearts and minds wherever he went, charming men, women, and children alike. (Granted, it had stopped working on his folks when he was four.)

“I...I guess so,” Steve said finally. “As long as you don’t mind.”

Bucky looked at him, baffled. “Steve. I’m the one who _offered_.”

* * *

Despite the winning strategy of Bucky’s charm offensive, they still had work to do. He did, however, have a limit, and around four he started complaining loudly that it was _too hot_ and weren’t they _finished yet_? He considered it a success when Steve got so annoyed that he gave up and snapped at Bucky to help him clean up. Bucky did, gladly, before they headed for the house.

Steve hesitated in front of the patio doors, glancing up at Bucky. “I’m covered in paint…”

“So’m I,” Bucky said with a shrug. “Just knock your shoes off out here.”

“Yeah, but it’s your house. You can take a shower.”

“I was going to offer you a shower, too,” Bucky countered. “I have manners.”

“Well, I don’t have any _clothes_.” God, Steve was so good at inventing problems. Bucky couldn’t imagine living life that way.

“So borrow mine. It’s not like you won’t be back here on Monday.”

“Fine,” Steve said, his voice flat as he shouldered his backpack in a way that Bucky thought was just a _touch_ dramatic.

Bucky’s room had its own bathroom, for which he was eternally grateful. Not only did it give him and Steve a private place to clean up, but it had also been the perfect location to hide Bucky’s rampant masturbatory proclivities in his early teens. And late teens. And, well, it wasn’t _as_ frequent these days, but he had needs.

“You can go first,” he said to Steve, who was standing awkwardly in the doorway of his bedroom. “And you can, like, come all the way in.” Shaking his head, Bucky crossed to his dresser, where he pulled out some shorts and a t-shirt that were too small for him, figuring they might fit Steve okay.

“Thanks,” Steve said, his eyes darting around Bucky’s room as he took a few more steps inside. And it was an okay room, by Bucky’s standards. A queen-sized bed, navy blue sheets, and a rumpled comforter that he halfheartedly tugged into place. Really, though, what was the point of making the bed if you were going to get right back into it later? The walls were a pale grey, and he’d put up movie posters wherever there was space. He also had a television, which had been cool when it was his twelfth birthday present but was kind of dated now. He hated the picture quality, preferring to watch stuff in the den. Oh, and bookshelves. And books. Normal stuff. It wasn’t the most amazing room, but it was his, and the way Steve was looking at it had him self-conscious.

“Uh, there’s an extra towel in there,” Bucky said, trying to force him to get a move on.

Steve took the hint, disappearing into the bathroom. When he emerged a few minutes later, Bucky traded places with him. It struck him as they passed that Steve looked really cute in his clothes, which were still too big for him despite the smaller sizes. But he wasn’t going to linger on it because then he’d get hard in the shower, and then he’d have to jerk off, and while his refractory period was pretty stellar, he didn’t want to accidentally fuck up the chance of getting something from Steve later. It wasn’t like he was counting his chickens or anything, but Steve had been _amenable_ on Monday, if a little weird.

His shower was a quick one, mostly because he wanted to get back to Steve. He shut off the water and stepped out, wrapping a towel around his hips. He could hear Steve’s voice coming from the bedroom, and because he wasn’t a saint, he walked to the bathroom door, pressing his ear against it.

“...probably around nine or ten?” Silence. “I know, but the train runs pretty late on a Friday, I’ll be okay.” Oh. His mother, probably. “Yeah, no, he’s okay.” A pause, Steve laughed a little. “Okay. I’ll call you if I need to. Love you, ma.”

Steve had _laughed_. Steve loved his _mother_. Goddamn, Steve was an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a hundred pounds of bristly and mean.

Bucky pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, entering the bedroom while running a towel over his wet hair. Steve had settled in on his desk chair, which was the only other seating in the room, save Bucky’s bed. “Hey,” he said, Steve giving him a nod of acknowledgment. “Uh, so, you wanna watch a movie or something? I’d offer you food but my mom’s gonna be home later, and we usually get delivery on Fridays so like...we can eat then?”

“Oh, I’m not expecting dinner…” Steve began.

Shrugging, Bucky tossed the towel over his shoulder, where he knew it would land in a crumpled heap on the bathroom floor. He’d pick it up later. Probably. “It’s fine. My mom’s a total food pusher. So, movie?”

“Sure.”

And yeah, if Steve had been one of Bucky’s friends from school, he would have brought him downstairs to the den with the better TV. But, well, this was Steve. Steve-who-might-make-out-with-him. That required a little privacy, and finesse. So he went to his bed and sat down, reaching for the remote and turning on the television before navigating to the Netflix menu.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said. Steve paused, then rose from the chair and came to the other side of Bucky’s bed, sitting down right on the edge, spine rigid and tension evident in his frame. Bucky rolled his eyes. “I’m not gonna bite you, you know.”

Steve glanced over at him, shrugging. “I know. Just…”

“Ghostbusters?” Bucky interrupted, because he didn’t want to have some awkward conversation, he just wanted Steve to relax.

“Huh? Oh, uh, sure.”

Netflix only had the original, though Bucky liked the remake just fine. (The hot receptionist with the killer arms had helped. Plus, Kate McKinnon was funny.) He settled in against the headboard as the movie started. After a couple of minutes, Steve mimicked his posture - albeit with about two feet of space between them on the mattress.

Bucky was patient. He waited until Venkman was investigating Dana’s fridge before he shifted his weight a little, scooting down the headboard until he was leaning against his pillows, his body angled towards Steve’s, closing the gap about halfway. Steve glanced over, biting his lip. He looked nervous but, Bucky was pleased to see, not disinterested.

“Hey…” he said, smiling up at him.

Steve made a noise of acknowledgment, still half-pretending to watch the movie. “What?”

“I wanna make out. With you.”

Steve’s cheeks went red, and he stiffened. Bucky instinctively reached out, resting a hand on his knobby knee and squeezing. “Hey, sorry,” he said. “No pressure, okay? We can just watch the movie…”

“It’s, I…” Steve looked down at Bucky’s hand, pointedly avoiding his eyes. “I want to, but I’m a virgin,” he blurted, the words coming out in one big breath.

Bucky lit up inside, though he couldn’t exactly _grin_ like he wanted to. Not where Steve could see it. But, well, it explained a lot. And it didn’t dim his attraction to Steve one little bit. “Well, shit,” he said after a minute. “I don’t care. I wasn’t planning on sleeping with you. I just...wanna kiss you. Surely you’ve…?” Steve flinched. Oh. _Oh_. Maybe not.

“ _Yes_ ,” Steve snapped, cutting him off mid-thought and glaring. God, but he was a defensive little shit. “Just...not...um. Not with a guy.”

Bucky was going to come in his sweats. Steve was going to kill him. This was it, the end of his life. But he had to play it cool. “That’s alright,” he said, feigning nonchalance. “But I feel kinda bad - suckin’ your dick before I ever gave you a kiss...”

He wasn’t sure it was possible for a human being to turn redder, but Steve was edging into tomato territory as he picked at the bedspread with his right hand and squirmed. “I um. That was my. First. And um…”

His first blowjob. Bucky’d had his suspicions, and now those suspicions were confirmed. Playing it cool was increasingly difficult. Because there was a part of Bucky that felt guilty about it. Like maybe, in sucking Steve off, he’d taken advantage of him somehow, even if Steve had been ready, willing, able, and consenting. So he scooted a little closer, looking up at him with what he hoped were pleading eyes. “Oh my God, Steve, you gotta let me kiss you. Please?”

Steve glanced down at him, considering. “I...okay,” he said finally. “I might be bad at it, though.”

Bucky smiled, relieved, reaching up to curl a hand around the back of Steve’s neck, rubbing at the tension he felt there. “Gotta start somewhere,” he said. “And I haven’t kissed any girls but...I gotta figure the basics are the same. Just...try and relax, huh?”

He didn’t want to give Steve time to second-guess or worry, so he worked quickly, tugging him down. When their mouths met, it wasn’t exactly fireworks. Steve was tense and awkward, his lips dry and his nose bumping up against Bucky’s as he mumbled a ‘sorry.’ Bucky got the sense that the girls Steve had been kissing numbered in the low single-digits, at best.

Still, Bucky liked teaching, so he set to work, kissing Steve slow and easy. He kept things closed-mouth and remarkably chaste at first - they had no reason to rush. In fact, Bucky couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to take things so slowly. He pulled back eventually, giving Steve a smile before beginning to kiss right up his jawline and down his neck. And _there_ was the reaction he wanted, Steve shuddering when Bucky pressed a feather-light kiss to the exposed skin near his collarbone. He took a chance, licking the same spot, which elicited a moan. Bucky filed that particular location away for later.

He didn’t linger too long on Steve’s neck, finding his way back to his mouth after a moment. This time, he wanted to explore a bit more thoroughly, so he used his tongue to nudge against the seam of Steve’s lips, parting them gently and then...oh, fuck, tentacle monster. Oh, God. Too much tongue. Too much! Jesus Christ in heaven, who had taught Steve how to French?!

Bucky couldn’t pull back. He _couldn’t._ Steve was already self-conscious, and if Bucky showed even the slightest sign of reticence, he’d probably sock him in the jaw. So he had to be careful, be a teacher again, even if it was fucking remedial Frenching. He coaxed, and he prodded, pushing against Steve’s wandering tongue with his own, easing him back and working to lighten the kiss. When he was reasonably sure Steve had the basics down, he deepened it again, trying to keep control of the situation. Steve was still sloppy and overeager, but Bucky noticed a marked improvement by the time they came up for air.

Even better than the improved kissing, though, was the fact that Steve had a smile on his face. A real smile. Mission fucking accomplished.

“Good?” Bucky asked, his hand still cupping Steve’s neck, the other resting lightly on the bedspread between them. He really didn’t want to push things.

“Uh huh,” Steve said, the revelatory smile still on his face. “You’re uh, you’re good at that.”

Bucky shrugged, trying to tamp down the flare of pride that shot through him. He might not have been good for much, but he was good at kissing. “S’nothing,” he said, feigning modesty. “Just lots of practice.”

“Yeah, that’s not…” Steve shrugged, his expression shuttering closed. “Not really my problem.”

Damn it. “Hey,” Bucky said, attempting a little levity to try and get that smile back. “You said you’d kissed girls before. That’s not nothing.”

“Girl, singular,” Steve said quietly. “It was uh, in May? At a graduation party. Lorraine. She uh...it was one of those seven minutes in heaven things. I don’t think she really wanted to…”

Oh, _Steve_.

“Then she was missing out,” Bucky said as he leaned in again.

Things got a little more intense the second time around. Steve, as it turned out, was a toppy little shit who started fighting Bucky for control of the kiss as soon as he got some confidence in his abilities. Which, okay, he still wasn’t _great,_ but Bucky didn’t mind relinquishing control to his wandering tongue. It was just that relinquishing control and Steve’s little show of power had Bucky hard and aching in his sweats with no hope of relief. Because it was six o’clock on a Friday and George and Winnie would be home any minute.

“Steve…” he panted eventually, pulling away. “Hey, _hey_.”

Steve sat back, cheeks red and hair mussed, confusion on his face. “Did I do something wrong…?”

“No,” Bucky said quickly. “You’re uh…just...my ma’s gonna be home soon and uh...you…” he gestured towards the obvious bulge in his sweats.

“Oh!” Steve realized, before that grin Bucky had grown to like so much spread across his features. “I did that?”

“Jesus,” Bucky said, reaching down to adjust himself a little. “Yeah, congratulations. You did it on Monday, too.”

Steve looked incredulous. “But I was the one who got uh...well. On Monday. You didn’t…”

“Yeah, I did,” Bucky said, nudging his shoulder lightly. “In the shower when I went back inside.”

Steve ducked his head, the tips of his ears going pink, though he did look pleased. “Oh. Did you um...did you think about me?”

Bucky groaned, pressing the heel of his palm against his cloth-covered dick and nodding. “Yeah. Fuck. You gotta...I’m gonna go in the bathroom and…”

“I’m hard, too,” Steve blurted, like that was going to make the situation any less awkward. “So, you know...it’s not just you.”

A glance down confirmed the statement, and Bucky smirked. “Thanks for the update,” he said. “Got any suggestions for our predicament?”

Steve looked at him, licking his lips, his eyes darting all over Bucky’s face, “you ought to uh…” he hesitated, and for a second Bucky was sure he was about to tell him to whip it out and jerk off right there. But in the end, he shrugged and waved towards the bathroom door. “Just go, and...I’ll um, out here.”

It was probably better, Bucky reasoned as he jerked himself right into a wad of toilet paper a few minutes later. If he was going to get off with Steve, he wanted it to be more than a rushed handjob while they worried about his mother coming home. He wanted, surprisingly, to take his time. Which was kind of funny, considering what they’d already done. But there was something about Steve that made him want to be careful.

Shaking his head, he flushed the evidence and washed his hands before putting himself back together and going to the bathroom door. “Hey uh, ya done?” he called, having left Steve behind with Kleenex and lotion.

“Uh huh.” Bucky opened the door, stepping back into his bedroom. Steve looked remarkably composed - nobody would know what he’d been up to, save for the two bright spots of color on his cheeks.

“So uh…” Bucky shrugged, offering him a smile. “We should do this again sometime.”

Steve nodded as he got up from the bed, evidently intending to get rid of his Kleenex in the same way Bucky had gotten rid of the toilet paper. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I um...thanks for helping me paint, too.”

“Oh, that? It’s no…”

“Bucky!” came a shout from downstairs. Shit, he hadn’t even heard the garage door. To be fair, he’d been focused on other urgent matters. Still, that meant his mother had been _in the house_ while he and Steve had been taking care of business. Which wasn’t the worst thing Bucky had ever done while his folks were home, but it still weirded him out. “Dinner. We got pizza!”

He went to the door and yelled down that he was coming before glancing back at Steve, who had just finished washing his hands. “Hungry?

Steve gave him another one of those big smiles, shutting the bathroom door behind him. “Famished.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left a comment asking for more in this 'verse! Hope you enjoyed this chapter - consider it an early Christmas present, if you celebrate Christmas, and a late-December surprise if you don't. 
> 
> Your comments and kudos are my lifeblood. More coming in the New Year!
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com).


	3. Got My Suit Damp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five times Steve turned Bucky down flat, and one time Bucky whined until he got his way. Truly, theirs was a romance for the ages.

Bucky didn’t understand Steve at all.

Friday night had been great. After they’d gone downstairs for dinner, Steve had thoroughly charmed his mother. They’d taken their pizza to the den where they’d snuggled up on the couch, watching a movie and occasionally trading a kiss. The evening had been excellent, by Bucky’s standards - not quite a date, but something close enough, and he’d driven Steve to the train station convinced that he’d have no trouble talking him into a repeat performance.

But then, Steve turned up to paint on Monday and turned Bucky down flat.

“I can’t,” he said when he was invited to stay after work.

“You said that on Friday, too…” Bucky protested.

“Yeah but, I can’t tonight,” Steve shrugged.

“C’mooooooon.” Bucky wasn’t whining. He was exceedingly charming.

“Can’t.” Steve held firm, even after Bucky flashed him his very best smile and batted his eyelashes.

That was annoying, but he dropped it. For Monday, at least, though he asked again on Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Friday! One whole week later, and Steve was still saying no. Which was incredibly annoying as Bucky very much wanted to make out with Steve again, and he was going back to school in two weeks, giving them a limited window. Plus, Steve was ninety percent done with painting the house.

Sucked, sucked, _sucked_.

It didn’t help that his mother was still riding his ass about the relative difficulty of the classes he’d chosen. Then, on Saturday, his stupid car started acting up, so he had to spend the better part of his morning sitting in a body shop as the mechanics looked it over.

Granted, a boring Saturday spent staring at his phone gave him ample time to freak out over Steve Rogers and his impenetrable fortress of solitude. Or whatever he wanted to call it. The conversation they’d had the previous afternoon hadn’t been Bucky’s proudest moment, and as he sat in the waiting room, he replayed it over and over in his head.

He’d approached Steve at two, just as he’d done the previous four days. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to ask for anything he wanted _five_ times in a row. Hell, two times was pushing it, as far as Bucky was concerned.

Steve refused him. Politely.

“But you stayed _last_ week,” Bucky complained, and God, he _was_ whining.

“I can’t tonight, Bucky,” Steve said firmly, that startlingly deep voice sending a shiver down Bucky’s spine.

“Why?” he frowned, crossing his arms over his chest.

Steve stuck his dirty paintbrush back under the faucet of the work sink in the garage, fussing with the bristles to clean them of the gunk that had built up over the course of the day. “I have plans,” he said finally.

A flare of jealousy crept in, curling its nasty little tendrils around Bucky’s brain, whispering _he doesn’t even like you_ low in the back of his mind. “With who?”

Petulant, jealous. He was acting like a child, knew it, and couldn’t stop.

Steve sighed. “It’s not...like that. I just can’t, okay? I’ll see you Monday, though.”

“Whatever,” Bucky replied, fixing Steve with an imperious look. Steve, who turned those sad eyes on him and shook his head, as though Bucky were ridiculous. As though Steve wasn’t the one who’d turned him down flat without explanation five days in a row.

Bucky had turned on his heel and walked out of the garage, leaving Steve with the mess. It wasn’t his finest moment.

It was, however, the moment he was replaying again and again in his head. Wishing he’d been nicer, or that he’d asked for Steve’s number, or that he’d kissed him instead of storming away in a huff.

Hindsight was indeed twenty-twenty.

 

* * *

 

Monday morning dawned, bright and sunny, and Bucky woke up early - _relatively_ early, he was up by nine - to get to Steve before he started work. The fact of the matter was that Steve was very nearly finished with the house. He had the rest of the trim to do, then he’d be done, and Bucky would never see him again, probably. And, well, maybe it wasn’t that dramatic, but it _felt_ dramatic. Bucky needed to ascertain if Steve liked him even a little, and whether or not he’d be amenable to seeing Bucky again outside of the confines of his job. It was starting to feel hopeless, but he had to ask, just once more.

All pretenses of dignity dropped, he sidled up to Steve just as he was leaving the garage with his supplies.

“Hey um...sorry I was a dick on Friday.”

Steve glanced over at him and shrugged, offering a small smile. “That’s okay.” It wasn’t quite the same as accepting the apology, but it was a start.

“You’re like...almost done here, right?”

Steve hesitated, the strain of holding up the heavy bucket causing his arms to tremble slightly. Bucky knew him well enough by then to know he’d never admit it was hard. “I should be done this week, yeah.”

“Okay, so just - will you please hang out with me?” Fuck, that sounded pathetic. Was he pathetic? He _wasn’t_ pathetic.

Blinking, Steve looked up at him, one single bead of sweat traveling from his forehead down, down, down towards his eyes where his long, pretty eyelashes blinked it away.

(Bucky wanted to lick the trail the sweat left behind. Bucky was officially losing his mind.)

“Um…” Steve began.

Brain abandoning him entirely, Bucky jumped back in before Steve could finish his rejection. He was sick of rejection. “Just like gimme your number, okay? I’m not gonna be weird. I just want to hang out before I go back to school. Which is really soon. So…”

Steve blinked again, reaching up with his free hand to wipe his eyes. “I have a job lined up next week.”

“Every day?” Surely not.

Steve pursed his lips in that way Bucky liked, cocking his head to the side and sighing. “I could maybe come over next Wednesday afternoon. But I can’t stay late.”

Holy fucking shit. Bucky would take it.  A week from Wednesday was still a shitload of days away, but it was an actual promise from Steve. A commitment to time spent hanging out that didn’t involve brushes, paint cans, rolling trays or the fact that Steve, technically, worked for his parents. “Really?” He knew he was grinning like an idiot. Didn’t care. “That’s awesome.”

“Yes,” Steve said, smiling. Bucky chose to believe the smile was due to his winning enthusiasm. “Can I do some work now?”

“Yeah. But um, do you want help?” Truthfully, Bucky’s petulance had led to him slacking off in the ‘helping Steve’ department, mostly because the more he helped, the faster Steve would be finished. It wasn’t his most altruistic plan.

“I got it,” Steve said. He looked Bucky up and down once, that small smile still on his face as he pushed some hair out of his eyes. “I’ll um, I’ll come see you before I go.”

“Yeah, cool,” Bucky agreed. He was going to go, he really was, but something about the way Steve was smiling at him was...tempting. So he leaned in and pressed his mouth to Steve’s in an easy kiss, pulling back with a grin. “See ya later.”

“...bye.”

 

* * *

 

They exchanged numbers that afternoon, and a good thing, too, as Steve finished the house on Tuesday. Bucky played it cool, waiting until Friday to text Steve anything at all.

> _Hey it’s bucky r u still good for weds?_

Steve didn’t text back until Saturday morning. Bucky couldn’t help but wonder if it was on purpose. Then again, he didn’t think Steve was the sort to play texting mind games, unlike some of Bucky’s other conquests - or Bucky himself, if he was totally honest.  

> _Yup. 1:00 sound good?_
> 
> _Yes bring your swimsuit_

Because Bucky would be damned if he was going to miss the opportunity to finally get Steve in the pool.

They didn’t text again, mostly because Bucky sent the last one and Steve never wrote back. He wasn’t about to debase himself by double texting. There were certain things you just _didn’t_ do, no matter how much you liked someone’s deep voice and too-big nose and blond hair and skinny legs.

By the time Wednesday rolled around, Bucky was a bundle of raw energy and had driven himself into a spiral of anxiety. Most of it came from deciding what, precisely, they ought to do and when they ought to do it. His original plan was to order food, then he decided being spontaneous might be more fun. But what if Steve wanted to eat first, or what if there wasn’t anything in the house he liked? What if Steve had just pretended to like the pizza, and he was secretly a vegan? That would explain why he was so skinny.

Just to be on the safe side, he went to the grocery store on Tuesday and bought a not-insignificant amount of stuff from the deli on his parents’ credit card. Surely Steve would want something in there?

The anxiety cycle also had him changing swimsuits three times before Steve’s arrival. He wasn’t entirely sure why he cared so much what Steve thought of him. Steve, whom he’d blown within minutes of their first ‘official’ meeting. Steve, who kissed like an amateur despite his willingness to let Bucky do _that_ to him. Steve, who didn’t even seem to _like_ Bucky all that much, despite Bucky’s best efforts.

Bucky had never, in his life, wanted someone so much. It was worrisome, scary, and _God_ , it was 1:02 and Steve was late.

In the end, he didn’t arrive until ten after one. Bucky had, of course, convinced himself that Steve either wasn’t coming, hated him, or had died in some sort of freak train accident. He was debating tuning into NY1 to check for breaking news of any transit disasters when, mercifully, the doorbell rang. Bucky bolted, flinging the door open to find Steve, unharmed, in khaki shorts and a too-large t-shirt -- _Prospect Park YMCA Summer Camp 2015!!!!!_ \-- plastic shopping bag in his hand.

Saying he was relieved would be an understatement.

“Hey!” Bucky greeted brightly.

“Hi,” Steve said, the apology evident in his tone. “Sorry, the train was delayed.”

“No, that’s cool. Um, come in. Are you hungry? I didn’t know what you wanted so...but we can order food. Or, like, we could make something? We’ve got a bunch of stuff...”

Steve shrugged, stepping into the foyer as Bucky shut the door behind him. “I’m not that hungry.”

Fuck. Spanner in the works. Food was supposed to come before the pool, which came before making out, which came before fooling around. That was the natural order of dates, written down long ago in the annals of People Who Got Laid In High School.

“Oh,” Bucky said. “Uh. We could go swimming?”

Steve’s eyes lit up at the offer, which was interesting. Bucky had honestly believed he might not even know how to swim, considering he’d refused any suggestion of a dip while he’d been working.

“That’d be great,” Steve said enthusiastically. “I brought my trunks like you said.”

“Cool.” That explained what was in the shopping bag. “You can change down here.”

Bucky showed Steve to the powder room, leaving him there to dress. He had his own trunks on already, so he went to the kitchen to start working on sunscreen - he needed to tan, not burn. His mother’s weird mole two years prior had put the fear of God into him about that, and it struck him as he slathered himself up that Steve would need the same protection, considering the miles of pale skin on him. Well, half a mile. Maybe more like an acre.

The exact surface area of Steve was soon on display when he emerged from the bathroom, and Bucky realized just how skinny he was. The baggy clothing he’d favored while painting had belied his actual size and Bucky hadn’t taken a good look the day he’d had his lips wrapped around Steve’s prick. But God, he was small, and not necessarily in a healthy way - every rib visible, chest practically concave, funny looking scars marking the skin there, white and faded with age but still prominent.

Bucky realized he was staring just as Steve’s mouth twisted up into a scowl.

“Sorry,” Bucky mumbled. “You uh, you have scars.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, his voice short. “That a problem?”

“What? No!” Bucky frowned. “I just...what happened?”

“Heart surgery,” Steve muttered. “When I was little.”

Bucky supposed he could have guessed that to be the case. Why else would someone have such prominent scars in such a unique location? He didn’t like the idea of Steve having surgery, having anything done to him that might hurt. “Oh. Are you okay now?”

A shrug, Steve dropping the shopping bag onto one of the high-backed stools tucked under the island. “Mostly.”

That invited a whole host of questions Bucky was sure Steve wouldn’t want to answer, so he awkwardly held out the sunscreen bottle instead. “If...here.”

Steve took the bottle silently, pouring some of the lotion into his hand and beginning to work it into his skin. Bucky tried not to watch, having been snapped at once, but it was hard to look away. Steve was just _little -_ maybe too little - like he didn’t have enough to eat sometimes. Bucky remembered the peanut butter sandwiches, the way Steve had eagerly taken three slices of pizza when his mother offered. Probably Steve was always hungry, and he’d demurred earlier out of some twisted sense of pride, which just made Bucky feel guilty for not putting up a bigger fuss about eating. He’d insist on it once they’d swum, using his own hunger as an excuse if he had to.

“Can you get my back?” Steve asked, interrupting Bucky’s thoughts.

“What? Oh, yeah, sure.” Steve turned around, and Bucky set to work, taking him in. God, every knob of his spine was visible, freckles on his shoulders, two dimples in his lower back just above the waistband of his shorts and boy, did Bucky want to kneel down on the floor and bend Steve over and…

Nope. Not happening. Sunscreen. No time for boners.

“There,” he proclaimed, pulling his hands away and rubbing the excess on his torso. “Can you get mine?”

Steve nodded. Bucky turned and tried not to think about how good it felt when Steve’s slim hands began working their way across his back and shoulders. Christ, it was just _sunscreen_. But Steve had excellent hands. Calloused, just like Bucky had thought, nimble fingers rubbing the lotion in.

“That’s...okay, done,” Steve said. “Can we swim now?”

“Sure.”

Steve, as it turned out, loved swimming. He jumped into the pool with great enthusiasm, bobbing to the surface with a bright grin on his face before doggy-paddling over to the side. He wasn’t a strong swimmer, but his sheer joy at being in the water was enough to make Bucky grin right back at him.

“You know,” Bucky said, sitting down on the edge and dangling his legs in the water. “You could have gone swimming like every day.”

Steve shrugged, grabbing onto one of the pool noodles floating around and balancing on it. “Your parents were paying me to work, not screw around.”

Bucky grinned. “Interesting choice of words there, Stevie.”

 _There_ was that patented scowl. “It’s _Steve_. Anyway, that was my lunch break. And you started it.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky shrugged. “You finished it.”

Steve rolled his eyes, though Bucky was sure there was a smile hiding somewhere under the stony facade. “Are you comin’ in or what?”

Instead of an answer, Bucky slid into the water, which was always the perfect temperature thanks to Winifred Barnes. ( _“We’re not paying for a pool without climate control, George. I want to swim when I want to swim.”_ )

Not that Bucky was complaining, it was a nice pool.

Steve seemed to like it as well, sitting on the noodle and leaning back to float, closing his eyes once he was settled. He looked content, which was a good look on him. With his eyes shut, Bucky could watch him without running up against his temper. Steve really seemed to resent the fact that Bucky had eyes and occasionally chose to turn them in his direction, which was ridiculous. Steve wasn’t a bad looking guy. Scrawny, sure, but he had a nice face and a great smile when he chose to employ it.

“This…” Steve said after a while. “Is so much better than the Y.”

Bucky shrugged, moving a little closer. “I’ve never been to the Y.”

“Little kids pee in the water,” Steve said. “It’s not that relaxing, but I haven’t uh - it’s been a few years. I really missed swimming.”

“I can tell.”

Steve’s eyes opened, looking at Bucky with such fixed intensity that it made his stomach swoop. Steve had a way about him - something that made Bucky say stupid things, want Steve desperately. For his part, Steve didn’t seem to care one way or the other about being wanted.

“Ever made out in a pool?” Bucky blurted.

Steve raised an eyebrow, a slight smile crossing his face. “You know I haven’t.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. “I guess I was gonna see if you wanted to.”

“Oh.” Steve blinked. “I guess so.”

“Try not to sound so enthusiastic,” Bucky said, rolling his eyes as he reached out and caught the end of Steve’s noodle. “You might give a guy an ego.”

Steve didn’t respond, choosing instead to leave the noodle behind and wrap an arm around Bucky’s neck. Points to Steve, that was very nearly suave - unexpected at the least. The kiss was still awkward, but Bucky didn’t mind. They’d get better, he was sure of it.

A perverse part of him especially liked the way he could hold Steve up, keep him close, and he circled his arms about Steve’s waist, pressing their bodies flush together. Bucky had been with plenty of guys, most of whom were bigger than him. Steve was something new, and he couldn’t get over how much it turned him on.

He was sure Steve noticed the dopey grin on his face when they came up for air.

“More,” Steve said, in lieu of commenting on his expression. Bucky wasn’t about to argue.

Steve used the buoyancy of the water and his leverage on Bucky’s neck to wrap his legs around Bucky’s waist, clinging to him tightly. It felt fucking fantastic, and Bucky wasted no time in bringing his right arm down to settle under Steve’s ass, holding him up while turning their bodies so he could press him against the wall.

“You make me crazy,” he mumbled as he broke the kiss, leaning his forehead against Steve’s, water dripping into his eyes, locking their gazes together. “Fuck.”

“You feel good,” Steve said, gyrating his hips and, oh, Bucky could feel him now, the twitch of Steve’s cock against his thigh. His own dick was showing some interest as well, and he groaned, leaning in again and biting Steve’s lip none-too-gently.

Steve gave a yelp, though he didn’t seem that upset. He chased the sensation when Bucky released his mouth, capturing him in a rough kiss. Steve’s hands were _everywhere_ \- his back, his neck, tangled in his hair, keeping their mouths pressed tight together. Bucky was sure he’d do anything Steve asked, so long as he kept _touching_ him that way.

“Please…” Bucky whined after a not inconsiderable amount of time had passed, lips kissed raw, sporting a hard-on that could hammer nails.

“Please what?” Steve asked, confusion written on his features.

“You gotta touch me, or I’m gonna die. Please?”

Steve took Bucky’s meaning, his cheeks going pink. “Ah,” he said. “I uh...might not be very good at it.”

“No, you’ll be so good…” Bucky was begging, he knew, needy in a way he usually wasn’t. He didn’t care - it wasn’t a fucking job interview, it was a handjob in a pool. Steve was more than capable. “I can show you, okay?”

“Um…” Steve disentangled himself from the spider-grip he had on Bucky’s neck, lowering himself back into the water, which came all the way up to his armpits. Bucky sank down to meet him, smiling a little. “I can try…”

“It’s okay.” Bucky could tell he was nervous - didn’t want to freak him out - but God, at that moment he wanted Steve’s hands on him more than he’d ever wanted anything. His bike, his car, Disney World when he was ten. “Here, just...it’s okay.”

Bucky’s reassurances didn’t do much to assuage the nervous look on Steve’s face. Still, he didn’t pull away when Bucky reached out for his hand, guiding it to the waistband of his trunks. Steve took some initiative, letting go of Bucky’s fingers and curling his own around the elastic, pulling it away from Bucky’s skin so he could explore and - _fuck_ \- letting his thumb brush over the head of Bucky’s prick.

“Oh my God,” Steve muttered, jumping as though he’d been shocked. His hand, however, remained right where it was. Probably a good sign.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Bucky echoed. “Don’t stop...it’s just like jerking yourself off, Steve, I swear to God. Please?”

Steve fixed him with a look - one that pointedly said he thought Bucky was full of _shit_ \- before wrapping his hand around Bucky’s shaft. Bucky groaned, sinking even further into the water and leaning in for a kiss. He couldn’t stand not kissing Steve, he found, not when Steve was so eminently kissable.

“Feels fucking good,” he mumbled after a moment, wanting to encourage. Steve’s touch was tentative, but he was learning. “Can I touch you, too?”

“Yeah.” Interesting - Steve agreed to that one with zero hesitation. Bucky wasted no time in getting his hand down the front of Steve’s shorts, and while he was intimately familiar with the curve of Steve’s prick, it was nice to get reacquainted.

Steve grunted at the attention, his hand tightening on Bucky’s cock, which was exactly what Bucky had been missing. He sighed, kissing Steve eagerly, egging him on. “Yes, that...do that again…”

There was no need to tell Steve twice - he set a steady pace as he stroked, a pace which Bucky matched. Initially, Bucky tried to keep kissing him, but the intensity of everything happening below the waist was too much, and ultimately they ended up half-kissing, half-panting into one another’s mouths, arms working in tandem. The water was worked into a frenzy, and there was no mistaking just what they were doing. It was a very good thing they were home alone.

It only took a few minutes before Steve went tense, breath catching in his throat as he bit off a cry and came, dick pulsing in Bucky’s hand. His grip on Bucky’s cock faltered as his orgasm overcame him, which wasn’t a surprise. Bucky took advantage of the brief respite to study him as he came - eyes closed, mouth open in an expression that was almost one of shock. Nobody looked their best when they orgasmed unless they were faking it, but Bucky found himself charmed by Steve’s appearance regardless.

As Steve came back to himself, his eyes opened, and he fixed Bucky with a penetrative stare, a grin spreading across his features. Wordlessly, he tightened his grip again and picked the rhythm right back up. Jesus, he learned fast. He seemed bound and determined to get Bucky off quickly, and Bucky wasn’t about to stop him.

“Twist your wrist...fuck, _fuck_ ,” Bucky hissed eventually, the familiar inevitability of his orgasm beginning to overwhelm him. Steve did as he was told and Bucky groaned, pumping his hips once...twice...three times against Steve’s hand and fuck, yes, there it was, Steve’s name on his lips as he spilled into the water and leaned in for another kiss.

It was only when the kiss was broken that Bucky registered the slight wheeze in Steve’s respiration. Pulling back, his eyes widened - Steve was white as a sheet, and while he didn’t look panicked, there was a certain unease in his eyes.  

“Um…?” Sure, Steve had been out of breath, but the wheezing was new. And decidedly scary.

“Inhaler?” Steve managed, flapping his hand. “Bag.”

Bucky barely had time to haul his shorts up around his waist as he scrambled to get out of the pool. Steve’s inhaler was easy enough to find, and he sprinted back outside, handing it off. He’d seen Steve use it while painting, usually after doing something especially strenuous, but he hadn’t anticipated orgasm-induced asthma, especially since Steve had been fine when Bucky sucked him off. God, had he been having trouble breathing the entire time and Bucky just hadn’t noticed?

Asshole, thy name is Bucky.

He stayed crouched by the side of the pool as Steve used the inhaler, letting the medication do its work. Sighing, Steve leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, free hand coming out to grip the stonework and keep himself standing.

“Sorry,” Steve said, his voice small and reedy when it emerged.

“It’s okay,” Bucky said. He knew Steve wouldn’t want pity, would lash out if Bucky checked in on him. So he went for cocky instead - cocky came naturally. “Never gave anybody a handjob asthma attack before. Kinda cool.”

Steve fixed him with a glare, but there was a smile, too. “Jeez, Bucky. Anyway, it wasn’t exactly - I just get out of breath when I exercise too...vigorously.”

“Oh, that was vigorous,” Bucky agreed, standing up and smiling all that way down at Steve. “I’m starving. You wanna go eat?”

“Um…” Steve shrugged. “We kind of made a mess.”

Bucky blinked. “That’s why we have filters? And chlorine?”

(Or, at least, he was pretty sure that’s what those things were for. He’d never really thought about it before.)

 

* * *

 

Thirty minutes later, Bucky opened the door to his room in a complicated maneuver that involved balancing two full plates of food on one arm. Steve had hopped in the shower after Bucky was done, and in the interest of saving time (and feeding Steve), Bucky had spent his alone time making two giant-ass sandwiches. Plus chips. And cookies. And two bottles of organic lemonade. And apples, in case Steve was healthy.

Bucky’s natural laziness had led him to the conclusion that he could get everything upstairs in one trip, hence the door-opening acrobatics. Once he had it open, he found Steve sitting on his bed, back in his shorts and t-shirt, running a towel over his hair. Said towel was making said hair stand on end, which was so stupidly cute. _Steve_ was so stupidly cute, and he probably didn’t even know it. Bucky would have to show him.

“Food,” Bucky proclaimed triumphantly, rebalancing his load and kicking the door shut with his foot. He handed Steve the fuller plate with the bigger sandwich - not that he’d set it up that way on purpose or anything.

“Thanks,” Steve replied, balancing the plate on his knees and (to Bucky’s gratification) immediately reaching for the food.

Bucky debated where to sit for a moment before settling himself on the floor, left shoulder tucked against Steve’s right calf. For a while, neither of them spoke, too fixated on the food in front of them - Bucky was starving, and he had to imagine Steve was, too.

“So uh,” Bucky said once his sandwich was done and he was just picking at his chips. “This is my last week at home.”

Steve didn’t respond immediately, chewing and swallowing first. “You mentioned that before.”

“Yeah, I’m going back to school, so…”

“So, it was nice getting to know you, here’s the door?” Steve said, a touch bitterly. Which: what the hell, Steve?

“Uh, no?” Steve really was the most defensive person Bucky had ever met, and he was related to _Becca_. “I go to friggin’ Rutgers. You could like...come visit.”

Another beat of silence, long enough for Bucky to feel the tips of his ears grow hot. Of course, Steve wouldn’t want to visit him, he’d been an idiot to ask.

“I dunno,” Steve said, drawing out the word. “I have school, too.”

That turned on a dim lightbulb in Bucky’s mind - his mother had mentioned Steve painting houses to pay for school or something along those lines.

“That’s cool. Where are you going?”

“Kingsborough College.” Steve said it with a measure of defensiveness, as though worried Bucky might judge him. (Truth be told, Bucky hadn’t heard of Kingsborough before, but he wasn’t going to mention it to Steve.)

Instead, he turned his head to look up at him properly, smiling his most persuasive smile. “So like, they don’t give you weekends off at your school? That’s ridiculous.”

“What?” Steve actually laughed at that. “Of course they do. And, I mean, yeah, I guess if I came on a weekend. Is there a bus?”

Bucky honestly didn’t know - his car took care of that, and if he and his friends went into the city, they tended to drive to Hoboken and take the PATH. “Uh, maybe? I can pick you up from whatever station in Jersey, though. I mean, if you come.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “I’ll think about it. My Friday schedule’s pretty light.”

Bucky couldn’t help grinning, and on an impulse he scooted closer, leaning his head up against Steve’s knobby knee. “That’d be cool.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, a tentative hand reaching out to brush a piece of damp hair off Bucky’s forehead. It wasn’t the most intimate thing they’d done by a long shot, but to Bucky, it felt significant. Because Steve was maybe going to come and visit him at school, and he wasn’t going to have to go an entire semester without seeing that sour little face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Up next: Steve visits Rutgers and lo: a wild Natasha appears, alongside various other Avengers. 
> 
> Comments and kudos feed my soul! (Seriously, I nerd out every time I get a comment. Full on Snoopy dance.) 
> 
> Come hang out with me on Tumblr. I love asks, comments, memes, excited flailings, however you prefer to interact. My fic ramblings live at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com).


	4. Hung the Moon on Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky goes back to school and doesn't think about Steve once. (Oh, who the hell is he kidding?)

Bucky fiddled with his phone while he waited at the station, keeping an eye out for the bus that was due to arrive soon. Ostensibly with Steve on it. He was ninety percent sure - Steve had texted him earlier, letting him know he’d made it to Port Authority on time. Bucky had to assume he’d made it onto the bus and hadn’t been kicked off for excessive contrariness. (Though the fact that he thought Steve _could_ be kicked off a bus for something like that said a lot about Steve.)

Bucky had never known anyone so averse to text-based communication - it was insane how little Steve cared for his phone. Bucky, conversely, pretty much lived on his  - he was in at least ten group texts at all times, plus SnapChat, plus GroupMe for class stuff, plus Messenger for his family. How else were you supposed to know what was going on in the world? Steve probably lived in some hermetically sealed bubble, given how little he communicated.

Not that Bucky cared, it was just _annoying_. They’d barely swapped texts fifteen times in the month and a half since he’d gone back to school. And maybe he’d thought Steve would be a little bit more open to talking, and maybe (just maybe) he missed him. It wasn’t like a pining thing, though. Bucky was too busy for that.

It had just been kind of a long six weeks.

School was fine, though - his dorm situation was killer, for example. He was sharing a room with his friend Bruce, which was great because Bruce was moderately nerdy and spent most of his free time in the library or at the lab. Their room was part of a suite that they split with two other guys - Tony and another James, who went by Rhodey, which was convenient. Bucky liked them both fine, even if they weren’t super close. Bruce and Tony’d had some classes in common, and when it came time to buddy up for their sophomore year, Bucky had jumped into their suite arrangement. It was working out reasonably well, even if Tony had a tendency to hog the shower in the morning. Bucky had gotten to his breaking point, and they were living in an uneasy shower truce. But Christ, Tony wasn’t the only one with an 8am class.

(Still, though, not sharing a bathroom with twenty other guys? Worth all the Tony showers in the world. There was only so much mildew a man could take.)

The school part of school? Not as good as the dorm, but okay. The classes he’d fought with his mother about were mostly core curriculum stuff. So: boring and pointless, with a language requirement that was going to be the death of him. Parlez vous his _ass_ , French class. He’d texted Steve during his first session of the semester, just to say hi, which was the start of the whole...texting thing.

> _Hi_.

Nothing for twenty minutes. Steve was useless.

> _Can’t talk, in class._

Bucky felt judged. By a text message. Ugh. It was as though Steve somehow _knew_ Bucky was slacking off. Rolling his eyes, he shoved his phone into his pocket and sat up straighter. Stupid Steve. Bucky could pay attention if he wanted to.

(And if he scored fairly high marks on his first two quizzes, it was just because he was smart and good at French. Nothing to do with Steve giving him a guilty conscience.)

The first week of school turned into the second, which ended with the first killer party of the semester. Bucky wasn’t in a frat, but Bruce was friends with a girl named Natasha, who was friends with a girl named Val, who was dating a football player named Thor (which: okay), who was in the frat hosting the party. The convoluted chain of acquaintances meant Bucky scored an invite (or at least nobody gave him a second glance when he walked in with Natasha and Bruce. It counted.)

“I’m gonna get drunk!” he informed them.

“Unsurprising!” Natasha said, “I’m gonna find Wanda.”

Of course she was. Wanda being Natasha’s on-again, off-again girlfriend. Then there was Clint, Natasha’s on-again, off-again boyfriend. They’d gone into summer with Clint being on-again, but it appeared he’d been dumped in the interim. Natasha’s love life was nominally intriguing, though Bucky wondered why the three of them didn’t succumb to the inevitable and all go to bed together.

Thinking about Natasha’s love life made him want to text Steve. Not that Steve was his boyfriend - far from it - but that didn’t keep him from wondering what Steve was up to that night. Once he’d downed his first two shots of the evening, he sent off a text to find out.

> _Whats up?_

Steve didn’t respond. Or, rather, he didn’t respond within thirty seconds, which was tantamount to rudeness. So Bucky rolled his eyes and plunged into the crowd gathered in the backyard, watching one of the lunkheads from the team do a pretty impressive kegstand.

He was so caught up in wondering how much beer it would take to kill the guy that he didn’t notice Lance Hunter until he was throwing an affectionate arm around Bucky’s shoulders.

“Hey, Barnes,” he said. “How was your summer?”

Lance - with an average-length dick of above-average thickness - was straight. The straightest dude around, if you asked him. It was just that _sometimes_ he liked getting his dick sucked by guys. Bucky, specifically, on at least three separate occasions.

Honestly, Bucky thought that the guy uh...protesteth too damn much, but he also didn’t care about Lance’s crisis of sexuality. He was cute enough - big and muscled, with a devious smile. Just like Bucky liked his partners. (Except, well, Steve. But he wasn’t thinking about Steve because Steve couldn’t return a goddamn text.)

“Hey, Hunt,” he said. “Alright, how was yours?”

“Huh? Oh, good. Hey, I’m living in the house this year. You wanna see my room?”

Lance didn’t go in for subtlety. Bucky didn’t give a shit.

Ten minutes later, he was on his knees in front of Lance’s bed, which wasn’t exactly unfamiliar territory. Lance had a hand fisted in Bucky’s hair, and Bucky was doing his level best to get him fully hard.

“Christ, Barnes, get the fuck on with it.” That was accompanied by a sharp pull on his hair and Bucky jerked away, smacking Lance’s thigh. Some people had no appreciation for nuance.

“Don’t fuckin’ pull my hair when my mouth’s this close to your dick, asshole.”

“Then stop being a tease and suck me off.”

Bossy fucker. Bucky rolled his eyes, getting back to work as Lance eased up on his hair. Whatever mood there might have been was dead, and he really just wanted to be done. And yeah, they were called blow _jobs_ , but it never felt like this much work before.

Plus, there was the inevitable comparison to his most recent partner, try as he might to ignore it. Steve’s inexperience, his nerves, the way he’d taken control of his pleasure in spite of it. The fact that Steve’s dick was - from a purely aesthetic standpoint - more appealing to Bucky than the one currently resting on his tongue.

Fuck.

Lance’s hand fisted in his hair again, holding him in place. Bucky didn’t care - at least he wasn’t pulling. He felt the vibration of his phone against his thigh as Lance fucked up and into his mouth. Huh, Bucky really wanted to see who was texting him. This was _boring_. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been bored while…

Lance came while Bucky’s attention was miles away. Ugh. _Ugh_. Gross. Nothing like a little warning. Granted, he hadn’t been paying attention, but a little verbal acknowledgment before you choked someone went a long way.

Swallowing quickly, he pulled off with a frown, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and digging in his pocket for his phone. Lance was making all sorts of stupid noises, and Bucky really wished he’d shut up.

> _Sorry was working on a project. Hope you’re having a nice night_.

“Thanks, brother,” Lance said, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. “I’ll see you around.”

That was Bucky’s cue to leave. He got to his feet, knees creaking in protest - should have thrown a pillow down. “Yeah,” he said. “See ya.”

Nice nights were relative, he decided, as he texted Steve back.

> _It’s okay. At a party, kind of lame. What’s your project?_

Steve texted back quickly, surprising the hell out of Bucky.

> _Figure drawing for my art class_.

He’d attached a picture - taken with a second-rate cell phone camera, so it was hard to make out the fine detail - of a hand resting on a table. It was good, though Bucky didn’t know much about art despite the art history class he was currently enrolled in. But it looked like a hand, which he supposed was the point.

> _That’s cool I didn’t know you could draw_.

He didn’t know anything about Steve, really, other than that he liked to swim, and he was fun to make out with.

> _I’ve always liked it, just trying to get better. Anyway, bedtime for me. Night!_

Disappointment flooded Bucky as he stared at the screen. He’d hoped for more - wanted more. Fuck, he kind of missed Steve’s company, despite his limited exposure.

> _Okay, night!_

Granted, he wasn’t about to tell Steve that.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and frowned. His mouth tasted gross, and this party sucked. It was too loud, too crowded, and as he headed back downstairs, he noticed someone puking in the kitchen sink. Nope. He was going home.

It was all of 11:27 by the time he got back to his dorm, which was possibly the lamest thing he’d ever done in his life. People were still pre-gaming at 11:27, for Christ’s sake. But his head hurt, and the thought of being around other people just wasn’t appealing.

Instead, he got a beer out of the mini-fridge and curled up in bed with his art history textbook to try and study, as opposed to dwelling on his wreck of an evening. Nothing to do with Steve, he just had an assignment due on Monday, and it probably wouldn’t hurt to try and get through the reading.

It took three more weeks, several more parties, and another couple disastrous hookups before Bucky caved.

He texted Steve after sleeping with some guy he’d met at a mixer thrown by the LGBTQ center. Peter...Paul...Pietro? Bucky couldn’t remember and only felt a little sorry as he watched his paramour deposit the used condom in Bucky’s trash can before heading to the bathroom to shower.

> _When are you coming to visit? :(_

Bucky had learned Steve’s schedule even through their limited texts - he’d usually answer promptly if they arrived after eight on weeknights, ten on weekends. And he went to bed around midnight, so there was a window.

Just as he’d predicted, Steve got back to him fairly quickly.

> _Next Friday? Fall break so i could stay through Monday if not too much trouble?_

Shit, that was soon. He wondered if he’d asked earlier, would Steve have come sooner? Maybe he’d been wasting time. Not that he was _wasting_ it but...the hell, was P-whatever singing in the shower? Nope - wasting.

> _Awesome!!! Let me know ur times & I’ll meet u at the station_.
> 
> _Cool, thanks Bucky._

Which brought him to the bus depot a week later, fucking with his phone, Steve theoretically on his way. It took another five minutes, but a bus did arrive, which seemed promising. Bucky pocketed his phone, getting to his feet and rocking back on his heels in what he hoped was a very cool and nonchalant manner while the bus came to a stop and the driver opened the door.

A young woman disembarked first, followed by an older couple and then - yay! - Steve, sporting a pair of too-big jeans and a maroon sweatshirt, backpack slung over one shoulder. Still too skinny, Bucky noted, though he looked cheerful, which was a relief. Still cute, though he hadn’t really expected that to change. All in all, the muted memory of Steve he’d lived with for the past six weeks couldn’t compare to having him right there in the flesh.

“Hey!” He called out a greeting as Steve looked in his direction. Too upbeat, probably. Whatever.

“Hi,” Steve said, hopping down from the last step and walking towards him.

Bucky wasn’t sure if they were in hugging territory yet - despite the blow jobs and the making out and the hand jobs - but he pulled Steve in for one anyway. Steve, to his great relief, hugged back. (And would Bucky ever stop wanting to feed him? Probably not, but god damn, he was tiny.)

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Bucky said as Steve pulled back, which struck him as a profoundly stupid thing to say the moment the words left his lips.

“I said I was, didn’t I?” Steve looked hurt. Shit.

“Yeah, just...sorry, bad joke, cause the bus was late, so…”

Steve blinked at him, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder and shrugging. “Yeah, it left late. Sorry, I should have texted you.”

“No, no, it’s cool - we can walk to campus from here. I would have driven over but finding parking’s such a bitch on the weekends but uh...I could take your bag?”

“I got it.”

Of course he did - Bucky would have expected nothing less.

They began making their way towards campus, taking the scenic route so Bucky could point out a few things as they walked. Steve’s presence had the magical effect of turning him into a nattering idiot. He chattered on and on about his dorm and their plans, and the names of the buildings they were passing, and if Steve was hungry, and how some of the dining hall food was great and some of it was gross, and how Bucky was just so excited to introduce Steve to his friends that night.

Steve mostly responded with nods, “uh huh,” or “sure, I guess.” He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but Bucky figured maybe he was just tired.

“So, uh, this is me,” Bucky said as they reached his building, fumbling in his pocket for his key card and swiping them in. Steve followed him up to the second floor, where Bucky unlocked the door to the suite.

Tony and Rhodey were sitting on the couch, playing a video game and sharing leftover pizza that Bucky kind of remembered them buying the night before. They both looked up with some interest at the new arrival.

“Uh, hi,” Bucky said. “Steve, Tony and Rhodey. Rhodey and Tony, Steve.”

“Steve, heard a lot about you,” Rhodey greeted, standing up to shake Steve’s hand. Steve smiled at him, returning the greeting and casting Bucky a surprised look.

“You play?” Tony asked, glancing up from the screen. For Tony, that was very nearly polite.

“Uh, no,” Steve admitted. “Never been much for video games.”

Tony gave him a look like he’d just grown three heads, and Bucky was quick to place a hand in the small of Steve’s back and steer him down the hallway, calling out a “see ya later!” over his shoulder.

Small mercies: Bruce wasn’t there.

“You told them about me?” Steve asked once Bucky had the door shut behind them.

“Uh...yes?”

“What’d you say?”

Bucky blinked at him as Steve went to set his backpack down on Bucky’s desk chair. “That...you’re my friend, from home? And you’re coming to stay with us for your fall break?”

“Oh.” Steve walked to the window, taking in the view before turning around to face Bucky. “This is a nice room. It’s cool you can live on campus.”

Bucky was pretty sure Steve lived with his mother, though they’d never really discussed it. He wasn’t sure if Steve’s school even had on-campus options, considering it was a community college. So he felt awkward, as usual, and shrugged before responding. “Oh, yeah. It’s...being home this summer definitely sucked compared to this. My folks are such a pain in the ass…”

Steve shook his head. “No, I mean, I love my mom,” he said, cutting Bucky off. “It’s just cool that you like...have your own room.”

“I guess.” Bucky wasn’t entirely sure what Steve meant, so he gestured towards his bed in hopes of changing the subject. “It’s not exactly my room. You’ll meet my roommate Bruce later, but he’s...gonna be gone most of the weekend.”

(Truthfully, Bucky had paid Bruce a hundred bucks to make himself scarce for the duration of Steve’s visit. Bruce had a girlfriend, damn it, and Bucky had needs.)

“Oh,” Steve said. “I hope that’s not because of me. I’d hate to put him out…”

“No, no,” Bucky covered. “He’s got plans. Um, but anyway. I just mean like...you can sleep in my bed, or his bed. Or, you know. Whatever.”

God, the tips of his ears were burning. Since when did he get embarrassed about asking a guy to sleep over? Steve was ruining him.

Steve, who was looking up at Bucky beseechingly from under his curtain of hair (really could do with a trim). He shrugged, then stepped right into Bucky’s space and leaned up to kiss him. It was wholly unexpected, and sweeter than it had any right to be. “Figured I’d, you know. Your bed.”

Bucky grinned and nodded. His bed would be just fine.

He was about to suggest they retire there when Steve’s stomach gave a growl. So: food first. Bucky didn’t mind. After all, they had the whole weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Next up is the rest of the weekend. Every sweet, awkward detail, and with these two you know there'll be plenty of both.
> 
> Say hi on Tumblr at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com).


	5. We got a lovin' thing, we gotta feed it right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve tries the true college experience on for size. Featuring dining hall food, cheap beer, and more than a little awkward fumbling.

Steve’s stomach hadn’t stopped grumbling the entire time they’d been making out. Eventually, Bucky couldn’t stand it and insisted they get a late lunch. The closest dining hall wasn’t the best dining hall, which meant a walk across campus, Bucky keeping his arms swinging nonchalantly by his sides in case Steve wanted to grab his hand or something. Turned out, Steve couldn’t take a hint.

“Just get whatever you want,” Bucky said as they approached the card swipe to go in. “Here, take my card.”

Steve looked pained, glancing down at the ID and then back at Bucky. “Won’t this cost you a meal?”

“Uh, yeah? Just hand it back to me, and I’ll swipe again. I got like...the million meal a week plan, it’s bullshit, nobody needs to eat that much.”

(And technically it was against policy, and Bucky could maybe get his card confiscated. But nobody was paying that much attention.)

Steve swiped, albeit reluctantly. Bucky swept him into the dining hall, which was a veritable mecca of choices -  the pasta bar, the bagel station, the deli, and the sushi cart.

“Don’t,” Bucky proclaimed. “Get the sushi.”

“Why?”

“Just trust me, pal.” He steered Steve in the direction of the deli, which was his usual go-to. The pasta bar was excellent, especially on Fridays when they did the crazy bacon asparagus alfredo, but it was also why Bucky was getting fat. And he didn’t want to kiss Steve with garlic breath.

Once they had their sandwiches, they surveyed the mess of tables. A lot of other people had gotten the same ‘late lunch’ idea. Bucky narrowed his eyes, spotting a familiar head of hair at a table by the window, not too far from where they were standing.

“Natasha!” he exclaimed.

Natasha’s head lifted, and she blinked, once, before jerking her chin up to beckon them over. For Natasha, that was an engraved invitation. Bucky led Steve through the crowd, squeezing between idiots who felt the floor was an appropriate place for their fucking backpack and settled in at Natasha’s side. Steve sat down across from Bucky, next to Wanda, who of course was Natasha’s lunch date.

“Hi,” Bucky said. “This is Steve.”

“Oh, _Steve_ ,” Natasha smirked.

Bucky blinked. Had he mentioned Steve to Natasha? He didn’t think he had, but a lot of his time spent with Natasha was when he wasn’t exactly one hundred percent sober. So perhaps Steve had come up a time or two.

“Hi…?” Steve said, uncertain as he waved.

“Sorry,” Natasha said. “That was rude. Hi, Steve. I’m Natasha.”

“Wanda.”

“Nice to meet you both.” Steve, a gentleman, shook their hands. Bucky was impressed.

“Likewise,” Wanda said in her light, pretty accent, smiling at Steve like she knew him. Wanda had one of those beatific smiles that made you feel like she was letting you in on a secret - probably explained why Natasha liked her. Steve smiled back at her with that big grin Bucky loved - the grin it had taken him weeks to draw out of Steve over the summer. Unfair. “How do you know Bucky?”

“Oh, um,” Steve shrugged. “We met…”

“Over the summer,” Bucky covered, not wanting Steve to feel embarrassed about the house painting. “Our parents know each other and, yeah. It’s his fall break, so…”

“Oh, you don’t go here!” Wanda realized. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed…”

“Reasonable thing to assume,” Natasha said, spearing a piece of raw broccoli from her salad and popping it into her mouth.

Steve was picking at his sandwich, poking holes in the bread without actually eating it, which was driving Bucky crazy. “I go to school in Brooklyn.”

“Really?” Wanda lit up. “I really want to go to Brooklyn while I’m here. We go to Manhattan a lot, but nobody ever wants to go further out, and there are some great museums.”

“I’d go to the museums…” Natasha protested.

“We could meet up,” Steve said at nearly the same time.

Steve and Wanda began chatting like they’d been friends for years as Bucky watched, open-mouthed. Brooklyn, the museum, where Wanda was from, what Steve was studying, how they were both dog people, how Steve was an only child but Wanda had a twin brother. The fact that Steve thought he might want to be a graphic designer, but he wasn’t sure because it didn’t pay that well. How Wanda was hoping she might be able to stay in America to get her master’s once she was done with undergrad.

Yeah. Thanks, Wanda. Bucky had learned more about Steve in the twenty minutes she’d been talking to him than he had in their entire acquaintance.

 _Maybe_ , his unhelpful brain supplied, _just maybe, you ought to have_ _asked_.

Fuck right off with that, brain.

“Can we, Bucky?” Steve asked, breaking into his thoughts.

“Huh?” Shit, he hadn’t been paying attention.

“Go to the Zimmerli, tomorrow maybe?”

Zimmerli. Art museum, he was pretty sure. He'd never been. “Uh, I guess. If it’s open?”

“It’s open,” Wanda said, glancing down at her watch. “Oh, no. Nat, we’ll be late for class. Steve, I’m sorry, this has been so nice.”

“Yes,” Natasha agreed, looking from Bucky, to Steve, then back again. “So nice. Are you two coming to Thor’s party tonight?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Bucky said.

“Thor?” Steve was confused.

“Football player. Big guy,” Natasha smirked. “You’ll love him.”

“I…?” Steve quirked a brow.

“Bye!”

They didn’t waste time, standing up in a flurry of bags and jackets. Steve and Bucky watched them go, Wanda’s arm slipping around Natasha’s shoulders, Natasha’s going around Wanda’s waist. They exchanged a kiss on their way out the door.

“Oh.” Steve said, “they’re together.”

“Yes,” Bucky replied, looking down at his half-finished sandwich. He wasn’t hungry anymore.

Steve chewed and swallowed his last potato chip before reaching across the table and laying his hand on Bucky’s, giving it a squeeze. He had a half-smile on his face when Bucky looked up. “I um, thanks for lunch, Buck.”

The back of his neck went hot, and Bucky smiled, pulling Steve’s hand up and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. No big deal - Steve was just sweet sometimes. It was nice. “Sure,” he said with a shrug. “You ah, wanna walk around a little, see some stuff?”

“Sounds nice, thank you.”

 

* * *

 

Steve looked less like an angry porcupine when he slept. They’d walked, then headed back to Bucky’s dorm, passing out on top of his bed after a half-hearted attempt at making out. Now, Bucky was awake, but Steve was still asleep - on his side, face mashed against the pillow, right hand pressed to his opposite cheek in a way that made his lips smush up hilariously. And, Bucky noted with a fair bit of glee, making him drool onto Bucky’s pillow.

A glance at his watch told him it was nearly seven; the party wouldn’t even get going until at least eleven, so they had time. Still, pre-gaming and dinner would eat up a fair bit of that, and Bucky was bored. Wanted Steve’s attention.

So he pressed his nose against the back of Steve’s neck, wrapping an arm around his waist and digging his fingers into the material of Steve’s t-shirt, not quite tickling him, but not quite _not,_ either. Steve’s initial groan ended up a high pitched squeak, which killed Bucky dead.

“Bucky…?” He managed, voice sleep-slurred and dreamy.

“Morning, sunshine.” Bucky licked a stripe up the side of Steve’s neck, for which he was rewarded with another squeak, Steve jerking away and slapping his hand over the offending wetness.

“Bucky!”

Bucky cackled, rolling onto his back and placing both hands behind his head as Steve sat up and looked down at him with one of his patented glares

“You’re so weird, whad’ja do that for?”

“Wanted to,”

Steve rolled his eyes. “You wanted to _lick_ me?”

“I did.”

“That’s…” Steve thought for a moment, a pensive look on his face. “You um, that’s bad, Bucky. You can’t do that.”

The word ‘bad’ sent a little flutter right through Bucky, and he bit back a grin. “Oh.” He forced himself to look guilty, even though he one hundred million percent did _not_ feel any guilt whatsoever. “I didn’t know it was _bad_ , Steve. I’m really sorry…”

“I know.” Steve cocked his head to the side, contemplating. When he moved, it was unexpected, twisting his body around so he could straddle Bucky’s hips, sitting back and grinning like he’d mounted some prize horse. Which: what the fuck, fuck brain? Where had _that_ particular dumbshit image come from? He didn’t have time to follow it further - Steve was talking again. “I’m not mad or anything. But you can’t go licking people just ‘cause you want to, Bucky. It’s not civilized.”

Bucky hesitated for a second, adjusting to the game. He wasn’t sure, but he got the sense he was supposed to play along with whatever Steve wanted. So he nodded, willing himself to ignore the fact that Steve was sitting right on top of his totally-getting-up-there dick. “Guess I don’t know my manners, huh?”

“Guess you don’t,” Steve agreed. He brought his left hand up from where it had been sitting on his thigh to pat Bucky’s cheek about twice as hard as he needed to before gripping his jaw firmly and giving it a shake. “Good thing you’re so pretty.”

Bucky’s brain malfunctioned. It was the only explanation for the whine he let out like a goddamn chastised puppy. What the _fuck_?

Steve grinned, delighted with himself. Holy shit, was Bucky really this turned on from being called rude and pretty? Steve did such interesting things to him.

“Hey, Bucky?” Steve's thumb crept from Bucky’s jaw to his bottom lip, pulling it away from his teeth, down towards his chin.

“Yesh, Shteve?” Oh, that was funny - not having a lip gave him a lisp. 

“Can I suck you off?”

Bucky nodded enthusiastically, not caring how stupid he looked with his lip trapped underneath Steve’s thumb. “Yesh.”

“Never done it before.”

“You don’t shay.”

Steve barked out a laugh, letting go of Bucky’s lip and leaning down to kiss him. When he pulled back, he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and shrugged. “Just meant, yanno. I might be terrible.”

Bucky didn’t see how that could be true. Sure, realistically, he’d probably be awful. But the idea of Steve sucking him off? Having Steve’s mouth wrapped around his prick? Yeah, no, that was gonna be fucking great regardless of skill level. So he shrugged, deciding sage wisdom was the best route. “Just put your lips over your teeth and don’t gag yourself.”

Steve’s expression soured. “That’s thinking pretty highly of yourself, Buck…”

Grinning, Bucky pushed his hips up, grinding his sweatpant-covered semi into Steve’s ass. “It’s not nothing, and you know it.”

“I guess it’s something,” Steve sighed. “Hey, keep your hands behind your head while I do this, alright? I don’t need you…”

“Doing _exactly_ what you did to me when I sucked you off?” Bucky teased.

“Yeah, pretty much. I don’t want that.”

God, Steve was bossy. Bucky was into it. Wanted to do whatever Steve said and not give him any lip about it.

Okay, a moderate amount of lip.

Steve shimmied down his body, tugging at the cord holding his sweats in place, fingers fumbling with the knot until he got it undone. Bucky watched, fascinated, as Steve hooked his hands into the waistband and tugged. Consternation evident on his forehead when it didn’t work.

“My fat ass is pinning them to the bed,” Bucky said. “Cause and effect, Rogers, keep up.”

Steve glared at him, and before Bucky could think of another smart thing to say, Steve was pinching the skin right above his iliac crest, making him yelp. It didn’t hurt _that_ much, but it was unexpected, and Steve was kind of an asshole. Kind of Bucky’s asshole.

“You _asshole_.”

“Move your fat ass, then.”

Bucky huffed, bracing his feet on the bed and lifting his hips so Steve could tug his sweats down. It felt weird being so exposed, even if Steve had been just as exposed for Bucky by the pool. There was something about the way Steve looked at him - his expression caught between domineering and delighted - that had Bucky’s nerves sparking like live wires.

“You gonna suck me off or what?”

“I’m _getting_ to it, jerk,” Steve reprimanded. Bucky’s dick gave an interested twitch, which Steve noticed. Of course. “Huh, lookit that.”

“Oh my God, you know how a dick works, Steve. You have one.”

Steve blinked, looked up at him and smiled. “I’m gonna gag you if you don’t stop busting my chops.”

Bucky’s dick jumped again. It seemed his prick had become a diviner rod of “shit Steve Rogers can say that will get Bucky the fuck off” and it was getting on his nerves. Mainly because Steve had just used the phrase _bust my chops_ while threatening to gag Bucky and Bucky was into it. Fucking fuck.

“Wow,” Steve said, before wrapping a hand around Bucky’s shaft. Fuck. Familiar territory. No less enticing. His hips shot off the bed in a vain attempt to fuck Steve’s fist. “Maybe not this time, though. I’m still learning.”

“Please, please, please stop fucking talking and do something, Steve.”

“Well, since you asked so nice.”

Steve hadn’t been good at kissing, not at first. He’d been all wandering tongue and overbearing enthusiasm that Bucky’d had to rein in. However, that same tongue and enthusiasm applied to a suck job? Bucky. Could. Die. He curled his toes into the mattress as Steve made some truly disgustingly wonderfully obscene sounds between his legs.

Yes, fine, there were more teeth involved than were strictly necessary, and he couldn’t get all that far down on Bucky’s dick, but shit, his mouth. Warm, wet, wonderful. At one point, he hollowed out his cheeks and sucked like every wet dream Bucky’d ever had about him. Bucky’s virginal, perfect pornstar and, okay, oxymoron but who fucking cared when he was using his tongue so inventively?

“Steve, Steve, Steve…” Bucky was close, panting in earnest, eyes rolling back in his head. It was a battle to keep himself still, and God, he usually lasted longer. “Gonna, gonna…” He was going to shoot his load straight down Steve’s throat, is what he was going to do, he just couldn’t find the words to articulate it.

Steve, however, wasn’t an idiot. He took the hint, pulling off and using his hand to finish the job. The last thing Bucky saw before throwing his head back and closing his eyes was the fascinated look on Steve’s face. Like Bucky was worth watching.

His spunk ended up ruining his t-shirt. Probably shoulda pulled that out of the way. Next time - because there was going to be a next time.

As his orgasm subsided, the sensation proved too much, and he pushed Steve’s hand away roughly. He cupped himself, turning on his side and fighting to catch his breath. Steve sat back on his heels, frowning. Too far away.

“Sorry,” Steve muttered. Shit, he looked upset. That was bad - Bucky had only needed a minute to recover.

“No,” he replied, sitting up just enough to pull his shirt off, mopping at the mess on his stomach before holding his arms out. “Please, just can’t…right after. Sorry.”

Steve smiled, a tentative recovery as he moved closer and Bucky pulled him in. Wrapped him up and kissed him until his heart stopped thudding in his chest.

“You’re alright?” Steve asked, eyes still holding a hint of trepidation.

“Yes,” Bucky nodded. “I swear. Just...it’s hard sometimes, after. It drives me crazy to be, uh, to have anyone touching me.”

Steve pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Oh, sure. I get that.”

“Speaking of touching…” Bucky glanced down, the evidence of Steve’s enjoyment plainly visible. “Want me to take care of that before dinner?”

Steve actually blushed and ducked his head before nodding.

(Bucky, a really nice guy, let Steve tug on his hair while he sucked him off. Self-sacrificing and humble, thy name was James Buchanan Barnes.)

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, they’d gotten dinner and split a forty of the World’s Worst Beer in Bucky’s dorm before they’d headed to the frat party.

The frat party where Bucky was now watching Steve, upside down, ankles in Thor’s hands, doing an honest-to-God kegstand. It was the best thing he’d ever seen in his nineteen years on the planet.

Steve was taking it like a champ, despite having never done it before. Thor, ever the bad influence, insisted that there was a first time for everything before leading Steve to his doom. Bucky hadn’t put up much of a protest - Steve was a big boy. He could do what he liked.

And what he liked? Well, it seemed to be reveling in the college experience. The moment his feet touched the ground (and he got the requisite shoulder-punch from Thor), he made a beeline for Bucky, grinning and glassy-eyed.

“Bucky!” he exclaimed. “Did you see?”

Oh, Steve was drunk. That was cute. Bucky wasn’t drunk, even though he’d done shots with Natasha. Nope. Not drunk.

“Yeah, I saw.” He slung an arm around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him in close and sniffing the top of his head because he liked Steve’s hair. Steve’s everything. “You smell like cheap beer.”

“Probably.” Steve was beaming. Bucky adored him. Loved the way everything else dimmed when Steve was around. The way his heart jumped whenever Steve smiled at him. Or maybe he was drunker than he’d thought, thinking stupid, sappy things that didn’t mean much. Probably the latter. “This is great!”

Bucky tried to see it from Steve’s perspective, because to him it was just a party. Not the best, not the worst, just another Friday night. But for Steve, it was a change of scenery. There probably weren’t a ton of ragers happening in the apartment he shared with his mother. That was a crying shame - Steve was fun like this, lit up and loose, sweet and affectionate and...aw, hell.

Bucky leaned down and kissed him. The frat house definitely wasn’t the _least_ homophobic place on campus but who cared? Not him. Not when Steve leaned up into the kiss, warm and boozy, his arms wrapping around Bucky’s waist.

“You’re kinda drunk, Stevie,” Bucky mumbled.

“Steve.” Not drunk enough for nicknames. “But yeah, I am.”

“How come…” Bucky started.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “No, what?”

“How come not Stevie?”

He expected Steve to stiffen, get angry, pull back the way he always did. Instead, he just smiled, reaching up and brushing an errant lock of hair from Bucky’s forehead. “Dunno,” he said. “Just never liked it much as a nickname. Sounds kinda...twerpy.”

“Twerpy.” Bucky sounded the word out and laughed. “Alright, noted. I gotta call you something, though.”

“Steve’s fine,” he said, solemn as an owl. “We can’t all be blessed with stupid nicknames.”

It took a moment for the insult to register. Bucky scowled. Steve started to laugh.

“Some gratitude! I let a guy sleep in my bed, use my meal plan, do keg stands with my buddies…”

Steve cut him off, kissing him again then pulling back with a raised eyebrow. “And you’re enjoying every minute of it, right?”

He meant to say something snarky, counteract Steve’s wit with his own. Instead, he shrugged, smiled. “Right. Yeah. I’m um, really glad you’re here.”

Steve gave him a funny look. Bucky gave him a noogie. It was all about perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Up next: Steve's visit continues. What other shenanigans can he fit into one weekend? Also, will Bucky ever get his head out of his ass? Eh.
> 
> Comments and kudos are exceedingly appreciated, should you feel so moved. If you really like the story and want to share it, there's [a Tumblr post](https://icantbelieveitsnotlucy.tumblr.com/post/170847820167/where-the-summer-goes-chapters-5-ao3) to spread the word. Alternatively, if you just want to hang out on Tumblr and say hi, I love meeting new people (no, seriously, it's my favorite). I'm at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com).


	6. Even Rock Hudson lost his heart to Doris Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's all about trying new things. Bucky's all about enabling bad behavior. A good time is had by everyone involved.

Steve was infuriatingly _good_. Not in a precious, simpering, holier-than-thou way, just in a way where his moral compass was almost always pointing north, and he never let having a good time get in the way of doing the right thing. As it turned out, the right thing was spending the better part of Saturday afternoon working on an art history assignment while Bucky lay on his bed, stretched out on his stomach, conjugating French verbs. The mood in the room was fine; pleasant, even. It was just that there were other things Bucky would rather be doing. Things like kissing Steve, laughing with Steve, talking to Steve, looking at Steve…

Well. Nobody was stopping him from _looking_.

Setting his pen down, he pillowed his chin on his hands and studied Steve’s profile for as long as he could without getting caught. Steve was handsome in profile, all strong-featured and serious, tongue clenched between his teeth while he stared with fixed intent at his notebook, hand-writing his paper like a nineteenth-century clerk. What a concept - such a hipster! Bucky had teased him mercilessly.

“I’ll type it up later,” he’d muttered before setting to work.

Other than the studying, it had been an excellent Saturday. Much better than Bucky was used to from his weekend mornings, which usually consisted of waking up cranky and hungover, then cocooning himself in his bed to complain about the world to anybody who would listen. (Read: Bruce.) Sure, they’d still woken up hungover, but a decent breakfast and a metric fuckton of coffee had cured most of it. Plus, waking up to find Steve’s bare legs tangled with his own was a surefire way to make any morning better. Granted, he only had the one experience, but trading lazy handjobs while steadfastly ignoring the other’s morning breath was his new favorite way to wake up.

They’d spent the latter part of the morning as well as the early afternoon walking around the Zimmerli, hand in hand. Most of the art was foreign to Bucky, but Steve was interested, which made him interested, too. Steve had a lot to say about the art, pointing out details Bucky wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. He was a changed man - a _cultured_ man - by the time they got back to his room, art history paper beckoning.

Now the clock was ticking towards five, and Bucky’s stomach was kicking up a fuss. Steve, however, didn’t look as though he was planning on stopping anytime soon.

Bucky sighed and went back to his French book, where a mouse was sitting at a table with a cat and a squirrel, waiting to be conjugated.

“Bucky?” Steve asked some time later, rousing him from his work. (Or, honestly, his nap, a line of drool on his French book.)

“Huh?”

Steve rotated the swivel chair and faced him with an intense, serious look on his sharp features. “I was wondering. If you might know someone who could get us pot.”

Of all the things on earth Steve might have asked for, Bucky would have put purloining dope near the very bottom of the list. Full of surprises, that Steve Rogers. “Uh...I mean…” he laughed, pushing himself up and onto his knees. “I have some if you wanna smoke up.”

“Oh.” Steve sighed, disappointed, his fingers popping the cap of his pen off, then on, then off again. “No, that’s alright. With the asthma, I can’t...smoke it. I just thought maybe you’d know someone who could…”

“What, like an edible?”

Steve nodded, color staining his cheeks. Bucky fought the grin that was threatening to engulf his entire face.

“I mean, yeah. Bruce has shit like that - I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.” If Bucky was an occasional smoker, Bruce was a connoisseur. A real herbalist. A hippie straight out of the seventies smuggling bricks of hashish in his backpack across the borders of various European nations. A singing, dancing troubadour of peace and love, brother. (Granted, Bruce also had a shit temper and a habit of leaving wet towels on the floor, so it wasn’t like he was a saint.)

“Oh, I don’t...he’s not here to ask.”

“I’ll text him,” Bucky shrugged, reaching for his phone. “I know he’s got chocolate, and that shit uh...it’s like...a tincture? You put it on your tongue. And I think he has tea, too…”

“How much is it?” Steve was beginning to look as though he regretted asking; Bucky couldn’t have that. The thought of seeing Steve high - taking his mary-gee-wanna virginity, as it were -  was too good to pass up.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Bucky…”

“He’s my _roommate_ , he owes me for dealing with his gross kombucha, and his girlfriend smells like fuckin’ patchouli.” The story - according to Bruce - was that Betty Ross had a real problem with her pops. As such, she’d rebelled against his strict, military-style upbringing by becoming the crunchiest granola this side of Woodstock. Bucky got it, he really did. Parents were the worst. But Christ, Betty smelled like the back of a head shop, talked with the cadence of a wood elf, and dressed like Stevie Nicks with a macrame fetish. Betty was a lot.

Steve cracked a grin, looking down and popping the lid onto his pen with finality. “I guess you could ask.”

“Look,” Bucky began, holding out a hand. Steve took it, and the force of Bucky’s tug brought the rolling chair towards him with a purpose. It made them both laugh, and Bucky leaned across to kiss him once he was close enough. “I’m gonna text Bruce, number one. Then we’re gonna go out and get an unholy fucking amount of snack food. And pizza. _Then_ we’re gonna come back here and get you super high. Yeah? Good?”

“Yeah, good.”

Bruce was more than happy to let them have whatever they wanted because Bruce was a good roommate. So Steve was in an excellent mood by the time they got to the grocery store, and Bucky was endeavoring to be as entertaining as possible as they walked up and down the aisles. His finest tricks included riding on the front of the cart while making Steve push it, cracking dumb jokes, making faces at kids, and throwing the stupidest, junkiest things imaginable into the growing pile of food they were amassing.

“Hey.” Bucky grinned over at Steve, sticking his phone in his pocket after placing a pizza order they could pick up on the walk back.

“Hey what?”

Bucky reached out and plucked a bouquet of garish pink and orange flowers from a display near the registers, brandishing it like a sword under Steve’s nose. “Got these for you. For our herbal date.”

Steve opened his mouth and sneezed. “Daisies. ‘Lergic,” he explained, before sneezing again.

“Oh shit.” Bucky put the flowers back before throwing an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “Shit, sorry. I’m a terrible date. How can I make it up to you?”

He wasn’t going to blush or anything, but he did genuinely feel bad. While the gesture had been stupid, the sentiment was real - he wanted to bring Steve flowers. Or the non-allergic equivalent of flowers. Wanted to make Steve laugh more. Hold his hand in a museum again. Bogart edibles from his roommate for him. If that was what it meant to romance Steve Rogers, Bucky was in.

Steve considered his options before reaching out to pick up a small, potted plant instead. No flowers, just bright green leaves in a blue, plastic pot. “This? Pot for the pot?” The question was hesitant, as though Bucky might have been kidding.

“That’s so dumb, but yeah.” Bucky kissed his temple, reaching out to take the plant. “He’s cute. What’s his name?”

“Mmm…” Steve thought about it as they approached the register and began unloading their cart of crap onto the belt. “Frank?”

“I...sure, Steve,” he agreed, setting Frank down alongside the four packages of Oreos - had to try all the different gross creme fillings - and a bag of goldfish crackers. “Why Frank?”

Steve shrugged, slipping his fingers into Bucky’s as the cashier began ringing them through. “Dunno,” he smiled. “Looked like a Frank, I guess.”

Okay so, yeah, Steve was going to be fun while high.

Forty-five minutes later, pizza boxes on the desk and junk food laid out like a veritable feast of high fructose corn syrup and red dye number five, Bucky went rummaging in Bruce’s drawers until he found what he was looking for: a chocolate bar chock full of THC.

“So the thing with edibles,” he informed Steve as he sat back down with two smallish squares in his hand. “Is that they take a while to kick in. Smoking’s more immediate.”

“I know.”

Bucky frowned. How, precisely?

“I’m not _naive_ , Bucky,” Steve continued. “I’ve been...I’ve had a...fair bit of exposure to pot, okay? I’ve just never tried it myself, and I thought this weekend could be…”

Shrugging, Bucky leaned in and kissed him. That was usually the best way to stop Steve being combative. “Yes, definitely. Sorry, shouldn’t have assumed. Here, take this.”

They ate their pot, Steve looking thoughtful as he swallowed. “Tastes like a doughnut.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. “They’re flavored. It’s so stupid. Bruce and Betty drive to places where it’s legal a couple times a year and stock up on the good stuff. You can get shit here, but unless you got a prescription…”

“It’s not as good, or as safe,” Steve said, as though he had personal experience. Curiouser and curiouser, though Bucky wasn’t going to press. Didn’t want him getting all snitty again.

“Right, anyway. So all I mean is that like...we’re gonna have to wait a minute if you want to eat the pizza first.”

Steve did, and the pizza wasn’t bad, thank Christ. Bucky’s reputation had been on the line, as he’d promised Steve his favorite pizzeria would be “just as good” as Steve’s local place in Brooklyn. There was no basis for comparison or anything, but it _was_ good pizza in the right circumstances. Those circumstances being that Jess - the owner - was working the oven instead of Paul, his son. Jess made a fucking excellent pizza because the topping to sauce ratio was on point, and his crust was always crisp on the outside and chewy on the inside as God intended. Paul made pizza like a day old Kraft single fucked a jar of Ragu, the crust comprised of their sticky, tasteless issue.

So yeah, it had been a relief to walk in and see Jess behind the counter.

“Pretty good for Jersey,” Steve proclaimed, chewing and swallowing his first bite. “You should come out and try Benny’s sometime.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Bucky agreed. Steve was kind to invite him, and he wasn’t opposed to visiting Brooklyn, it just might be hard to get out there with his schedule and his social life.

“I still don’t think I feel anything.”

“It’s only been twenty minutes.”

“I guess. Do you think I ought to eat more chocolate?”

“ _No_.”

“Alright, alright, geez.”

“You can eat more pizza, or we can make out.” Bucky waggled his eyebrows in what he hoped was a very sexy and enticing way.

Steve reached for another slice.

Eventually, about fifty minutes after finishing the chocolate, Bucky started feeling _something_. It began as a pleasant tingling in his extremities, that slightly sweet haze settling over his mind, a low fog. Reacting just a half-second too slowly, like the world’s video track was a skosh out of sync with his personal audio track. It was such a lovely, dreamy feeling. Made him warm and happy, not like the pot in his drawer, which sometimes made him anxious. Bruce...Bruce had the _best_ stuff.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice broke through the fuzz and Bucky looked up, blinking. Huh. Steve was standing in the middle of the room, looking at his hands. When had he stood up? Couldn’t remember. Oh, right. He’d gotten up to put the pizza away. That seemed like it had happened a long time ago, though. “I’m uh.”

“Yeah, me too,” Bucky said. Thought he said. Held out a hand to Steve, who took a couple steps forward and practically collapsed onto the bed next to him. “You okay?”

“It’s um…” A short giggle escaped Steve, and he brought a hand up to cover his mouth in horror. “It’s.”

“Oh man.” Bucky grinned, pressing his face against Steve’s shoulder. “Man. And this just _started_.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Wow.”

“I always forget. Bruce. And.” The rest of the thought escaped him, as he’d gotten distracted by the texture of Steve’s t-shirt. Rough cotton, cheap cotton. Not as nice as Steve’s bare skin, so he started tugging, trying to get it off.

“Are you...what are you...wait, Bucky…” Steve was really giggling, squirming away and batting Bucky’s hands down.

“No, it’s gonna feel so much better if we’re naked, Steve, I swear to God.”

Grinning, Steve tugged his shirt off and tossed it to the floor. “You’re just trying to get me naked.”

Bucky blinked. Wasn’t that obvious? Instead of answering, he sat up and pulled off his own shirt, then stretched back out and opened his arms to Steve, who snuggled right up. Wasn’t as though he’d been _wrong_ \- skin-to-skin felt way better. More to touch.

They lay there for a long time. Maybe years. It was hard to tell. Years sounded appropriately dramatic and exciting, though, so he was going to go with that. He could have stayed there until they turned to dust and bone except _something_ was vibrating against his thigh. Something in the pocket of Steve’s jeans. Something so...so bad and annoying. Little gnat intruding on their nice cuddles.

“S’my phone,” Steve realized, reaching down and pulling it out.

“S’that a phone in your pocket, Mister...” Bucky giggled, though his laughter faded when Steve’s face lit up in a way he hadn’t ever seen before.

Steve shushed him, which was _rude_ , before swiping to answer. “ _Hey_ , Sam!”

Who in the happy fuck was Sam?

Bucky scowled. Started making a list in his head entitled _Things Bucky Barnes Knows About This Sam Character_ as Steve chattered away like he hadn’t ever been a porcupine and had always been a magpie.

  1. Sam made Steve laugh
  2. Sam wanted to know who Steve was hanging out with, and Steve replied “my...Bucky...my friend Bucky.”
  3. Sam made Steve laugh _a lot_
  4. Steve sounded super proud of himself when telling Sam he had gotten high
  5. Sam had a message for Bucky, which was that he ought to “take care of Steve” which Bucky thought was wholly unnecessary because of fucking _course_ he would take care of Steve, but mostly because Steve could take care of himself.
  6. Sam was officially Bucky’s least favorite person
  7. Sam was a stupid name
  8. Sam was stupid
  9. Bucky hated Sam
  10. Steve loved Sam. Bucky knew this because Steve said, “hey, I miss you. Love you, man. Don’t make it weird,” before getting off the phone.



“Who’s Sam?” Bucky asked, unable to help himself.

Steve, on a different sort of high now, pocketed his phone and grinned. “Oh, he’s my uh, best friend, I guess. From high school?”

Bucky hadn’t been aware Steve had any friends. Which, yes, was stupid. Of course, Steve had friends. Steve had a whole life outside of Bucky’s bed - just because he sometimes imagined Steve had been living in a cave by himself until Bucky turned him into a real, live boy didn’t make it true. But the idea of Steve having a _best_ friend? That was unsettling, and Bucky hated it.

“Oh,” he said, instead of saying all of the things he didn’t like about the situation.

“He went into the Air Force,” Steve continued, as though Bucky wasn’t about to vomit from how unfair life was. “After school, I mean. So he’s in Texas, doing...training stuff, I guess. I don’t know the details. But he can call sometimes, so I try to answer when…” Steve paused, catching something in Bucky’s expression, maybe.

“He sounds awesome,” Bucky replied, and wow that came out a touch more sarcastically than he’d meant it to.

Steve smiled, hesitant with it. “We’re friends, you know? He’s...Bucky, he’s super straight.”

“I’m not _jealous_ ,” he scoffed.

Steve’s expression soured, and he sat up enough that he could affix Bucky with an imperious glare from an elevated position. His favorite place. Bucky didn’t want to be high anymore. “You _look_ jealous,” Steve said. “And you're ridiculous. I’m not…” Rolling his eyes, he pushed a finger directly into the center of Bucky’s nose, smushing the cartilage down as far as it would go. “I like _you_ , stupid.”

It was easy to miss the sentiment, what with the way Bucky’s eyes were crossing as he looked at Steve’s finger. “Huh?”

“I _like_ you,” Steve repeated with a different emphasis, pulling his finger away and leaning down to replace it with his mouth, which was a weird place to be kissed, but not the _weirdest_ place to be kissed. “Stop being so insecure. God, have you seen yourself?”

Bucky frowned because he wasn’t sure how that was relevant. Still, he didn’t want Steve to go away again, so he brought a hand to the back of his neck in the hope of keeping him close.

“Yeah, alright,” Steve said. “You’re gorgeous, and I think you know it, but if you want me to tell you, then this is me telling you: I’m into the whole...thing you’ve got going on.”

“Thing?”

“Yeah, the…” Steve lifted a hand, idly gesturing up and down Bucky’s bare torso. “That.”

“Oh. What about my intellect?”

“Forget your intellect,” Steve laughed, capturing his mouth in a bruising kiss, tongue running across Bucky’s upper teeth before muttering against his lips. “Too high for your intellect.”

Steve didn’t think he was smart, but at least he thought he was pretty. Bucky could work with that. Surging up into the kiss, he pulled Steve back down with him, hands everywhere, buttons and zippers and laughter until they were both naked, bodies flushed and pressed together. Felt so _good_ to touch Steve. Better with the almost-fight hanging over them. Better knowing Steve was here with him and not in Texas with best-friend-so-straight-Sam. Better when Steve pinned him to the bed. Better, better, _better_ with his Steve.

When Bucky woke the next morning, he found a bottle of lube on the bed, dried jizz painted across both of their stomachs, and a vague memory of holding two cocks in his fist for a brief, glorious period of time.

There were also at least fifteen uneaten Oreos placed strategically around the perimeter of the mattress, tops removed, creme facing up. Oh yeah, they’d made a moat. Steve had one of the cookies in his hair, creme side down, pumpkin spice goo mashed gloriously into his golden locks.

Bucky pulled out his phone and took a picture. Steve was going to be so _pissed_.

Ah well, they’d just have to shower together. No better way to start a Sunday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Up next: Steve goes home, Bucky mopes and copes as best he knows how. So: badly. I've loosely plotted this out, and I think it's going to end up around 11 chapters, so we're halfway through. [Rebloggable post](https://icantbelieveitsnotlucy.tumblr.com/post/171352506367/where-the-summer-goes-ao3-link) for your sharing pleasure, if you so choose. 
> 
> Want to ask questions, chat, squeal over various and sundry pictures of Steve and Bucky? Find me on Tumblr at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com).


	7. Wait around for Mr. Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky finds debauchery isn't half so much fun without Steve. All that, and his parents really are the _worst_.

On the day Steve went back to Brooklyn, Bucky’s life went to shit.

He wasn’t being hyperbolic or anything, but thirty goddamn minutes after putting Steve on the bus, the skies opened up while he was walking to class, drenching him to the bone.

Which, cool. Rain was fine. Bucky would dry.

His laptop, on the other hand, was completely fried. That fact was discovered when he pulled it out of his bag and - due to the aforementioned rain making it slippery - dropped it onto the floor, where it landed on the corner, cracking the casing and the screen.

So: completely fucked. The sort of fucked that necessitated either expensive repairs or a total replacement.

Bucky swore, and not in French. It wasn’t that there was anything irreplaceable on there - he kept his stuff in the cloud, so he could jumpstart his life quickly on a new machine. No, it was the _asking_ for the new machine that was the problem. The terrible, horrible Winnie Barnes-ness of it all.

He called her after class, once he got back to his room. A call between them was a rare occurrence - they spoke once a week at best, with sporadic texts in between.

“This is an unexpected surprise,” Winnie greeted.

“Uh yeah.” Better to start with pleasantries. “How are you?”

“Fine.” A pause. “What do you need?”

Damn it. She was good. Probably why people paid her so much money to lawyer things for them.  

“It. Um. My laptop got wet. It’s broken.”

God, there was nobody quite like Winnie for an uncomfortable silence.

“Only it’s not my fault, because it started raining, and…”

“It’s _never_ your fault, James.” Uh oh. She was pissed. “That laptop cost _fifteen hundred dollars_.”

Well, yeah. It was a MacBook Pro, and it wasn’t as if they couldn’t afford another one. Winnie was so dramatic.

“I’m sorry,” he said, doing his best to sound properly penitent.

“Mmmhmm,” she said. “You’re always sorry.”

“I _am_ , though!”

“I’m sure you’re sorry it’s broken,” she agreed. Bucky’s face twisted into a scowl as she continued. “Let me talk to your father. We’ll be in touch.”  

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” For nothing.

As he hung up, his phone buzzed with a new text from Steve, who had apparently made it home.

 

> _Getting pizza from my local tonight. Hope they don’t figure out I cheated in Jersey._

 

Bucky sent back a smiley face before begging Bruce for the use of his laptop so he could check email. Bruce - who was pretty cheerful after a weekend spent with Betty - obliged.

It was nearly nine o’clock before George and Winnie responded to his request in the form of a text. Well, multiple texts, because his folks never bothered to be short-winded when they could instead blow like a fucking hurricane. Lawyers.

 

> _RE: laptop. Our research indicates you may check out a loaner and use in library. Library open 24/7, according to website. Also has regular computers. Seems to be the solution to your problems._

 

Oh, _fuck_ no.

Another text:

 

> _Furthermore, there will be no replacement laptops given for Christmas or birthday presents. Buy a new one yourself if you need it so badly. Mom and dad suggest getting a job, which we have heard is good for development of both self and bank account._

 

“You’re not funny,” Bucky said, gripping his phone tightly. The three dots were still blinking, so there was more shit coming.

 

> _This policy is known as the You Break It, You Buy It rule and holds for all other electronics in your possession, INCLUDING YOUR PHONE._

 

Bucky loosened his grip. The dots continued to blink. He hated the dots.

 

> _Final addendum: funds from Bank of M &D now going directly to your student acct for meals/necessities/books ONLY. No more direct deposits. Credit card is EMERGENCIES ONLY. Have a pleasant evening._

 

“Fuck _you_ guys,” Bucky snarled, barely managing not to throw his phone across the room. Smart choice, considering the circumstances.

He didn’t bother responding to the texts, and the next day he woke up a full hour earlier than usual, heading to the library, which he knew about in theory but had never visited in person. Everything was online - what was the point?

As it turned out, he’d been right to be suspicious. Their laptops _sucked_. They were sticky with the sweat of a thousand undergrads, keys worn down under the weight of a million fingers. Bucky was sure a snail could have crossed the Sahara faster than it took one to boot up, which was insane given that they weighed about four hundred pounds each. What were they _holding_ if not raw, computing power?

(Oh, right, an outdated operating system and a hard drive with like two megabytes of memory.)

All that, and they were his only option. Over the following days, he grew familiar with the library staff and the hours they worked, because of course, the semester he decided to start giving a shit was the semester the universe made itself extra obnoxious and broke his laptop. On a whim, he asked if they were hiring. Turned out, library jobs were coveted, and almost all were work-study - a thing for which Bucky most definitely did not qualify.

The ‘need a job’ job thing stuck with him as he got used to his new, horrible routine. He’d never had a job before - the few internships he’d taken in high school didn’t count, since they’d all been unpaid and for various parental acquaintances. He wasn’t even sure what he’d do - neither retail nor food service appealed, and those were likely the only available options.

Fuck, though, he missed his laptop.

The straw that broke the camel’s back came in the form of an email from Steve. Said email arrived in Bucky’s inbox as he sat in the main library on Thursday, working on a paper. It made him happy to see Steve’s name in his inbox - they texted, though not often, and he was getting the sense that Steve wasn’t a guy who was ever overly effusive.

 

> _From:_ _sgrogers99@gmail.com_[ _  
> _](mailto:sgrogers99@gmail.com) _To:_ _james.b.barnes@rutgers.edu_ _  
> __Subject: Resume_
> 
> _Hi Bucky,_
> 
> _I am applying for an internship next semester. Can you look at my resume and let me know if you think it seems ok or if there is anything I should add? Thx!_
> 
> _-Steve_
> 
> _ps My mom bought Oreos and thinks I’m crazy because I couldn’t stop laughing_

 

Bucky had a grin on his face by the time he’d finished reading, though his happiness was short-lived. When he tried to open Steve’s attachment, the computer threw up an error message about incompatible file formats. Bucky groaned.

“It’s a fucking PDF, you piece of shit!” He hissed, only to be met with a loud ‘shhh’ from a passing patron.

Fuck _that_ noise: he needed a laptop. Posthaste. He was going to get a job. How hard could it be? Plenty of people had jobs.

Besides, he’d only need to work long enough to buy the laptop he wanted. After that, he could quit.

Or, well, he’d work until he had enough to buy the laptop _and_ a phone, just in case. Then he’d quit. It was a solid plan.

The next day, he applied at no fewer than four different places - a coffee shop, a Jimmy John’s, a Starbucks, and a bar (which turned him down flat, being nineteen). None of them got back to him by the time he saw the help wanted sign on the bulletin board at the campus fitness center. He noticed the sign on his way out, after his Sunday afternoon workout, while checking out a twink-y blond who happened to be walking by. Which, whatever. He was _human_. He could _look_.

Turned out, the fitness center was in desperate need of students to manage the equipment room, and Bucky was hired on the spot after the world’s easiest interview. If he’d had more work experience, he might have wondered why, precisely, the job was vacant.

He soon found out. The job sucked. It was hot, smelly, and _disgusting_. Most of his time was spent shuffling loads of towels into and out of the industrial washer and dryer, then folding them and putting them back into the locker rooms.

And those locker rooms? They had to be cleaned. That job fell to Bucky as well, and he found himself hating humanity more and more each time he saw something foul in a bathroom stall. For the amount of time he spent cleaning up bodily fluids, Bucky felt sure he should have been making more than ten dollars an hour.

(Which, at fifteen hours a week, was a hundred and fifty bucks. Less taxes. Paid bi-weekly through direct deposit. His first deposit was barely two hundred fifty, and he nearly wept when he checked his account and saw the pittance.

At that rate, it would take him until the following summer to buy himself anything resembling the laptop he’d broken. Capitalism was bullshit.)

The other bad part of the job - and, honestly, a distant second behind the sweat and stink - was that his phone didn’t work in the basement of the rec center, so his social life was suffering. As the new guy, he got the shitty shifts, which meant two Fridays in a row. By the time he was finished, he was too tired to do anything else. That, plus all the time he was spending in the library meant he hadn’t attended even one party since the night at the frat with Steve.

And then there was the whole Steve problem. Bucky missed Steve. Wanted to see him again, but wasn’t sure if Steve felt the same way. Truth be told, he spent a _lot_ of time thinking about Steve. Some thoughts were decidedly dirtier than others. Mostly, though, he missed his company. Thanksgiving was coming up - maybe they could get together then. Or he could convince Steve to come out for another long weekend.

On the third Friday after starting his new job (and the third Friday in a row he’d been scheduled), he left the building around ten, pulling his phone from his pocket and finding a message from Steve waiting.

 

> _Hey Bucky. What are you doing this weekend?_

 

Fate!

 

> _Hopefully seeing u. Ru visiting?_

 

Steve didn’t respond right away, so Bucky trudged towards his dorm, convinced he smelled like an actual jockstrap. If Steve was coming, he’d have to see about switching shifts, as he was scheduled to work the following evening.

His phone pinged just as he reached his building.

 

> _Was hoping you could come out here?_

 

Ugh, no. Hard no. Sure, he wanted to see Steve, but he was _busy_. He had to work, and as it was, he barely had time to sleep and study, much less figure out getting to Brooklyn and back on the weekend.

 

> _I wish. Gotta work. :(_

 

Bucky was sure three weeks into a new job was too soon to ask for time off.

 

> _You work?_

 

> _Yes. Just started. Why don’t u come out here?_

 

Another long pause.

 

> _Can’t. Could come next weekend._

 

That could work. Maybe he would go to Brooklyn over Thanksgiving break and make it up to Steve.

 

> _Sure. Would love to see u._

 

> _Cool._

 

Bucky waited. Steve didn’t send anything else, which was one hundred percent annoying. His phone didn’t ping again that night, because his friends had forgotten about him in his absence. Life was a tragedy.

The next day, he worked his allotted four hours, headed home, and prepared to wallow in his loneliness all night.

Which made the text he received from Natasha around eleven-thirty all the more thrilling.

 

> _Baaaaaaaaarnes you BEAST where the fuck have you been? We’re all at Barton’s, GET HERE._

 

Huh. It was rare for them to party at Barton’s place. Bucky was intrigued.

Fuck it. He was tired of feeling like an old fart, incapable of fun. He had the next day to recover, and homework could wait. It didn’t take him long to get dressed and out the door, walking the mile to Barton’s off-campus digs easily.

The apartment itself was a disaster, covered in a faint crust of grease and Cheeto dust. Clint was a mess. However, he also had a new roommate. One with access to quality hallucinogens, Bucky discovered upon arrival. Granted, mushrooms weren’t usually Bucky’s drug of choice - weed was as intense as he got for the most part - but it had been a hard fucking week of piss-covered toilet seats and (ostensibly) sweat-soaked towels.

Plus, Steve hadn’t texted him _all_ day.

The only problem was, Barton’s roommate knew what his quality product was worth, and charged accordingly. Which meant Bucky had to take a trip to the ATM, which in turn reminded him of the dismally small number in his checking account. God, he missed the weekly stipend from the Bank of Winnie and George.

The ATM service fee was two dollars and fifty fucking cents. Had it always been that ridiculous? Surely it was a new fee. Assholes.

Scowling, he took out a hundred and tried not to calculate precisely how many loads of threadbare gym towels he’d had to shovel into a washer that smelled of cat piss to earn it. Nope. He’d work an extra shift or something. What difference was a hundred bucks in the grand scheme of things?

He headed back to the apartment and paid for what he wanted, pocketing some for later before ingesting what seemed a reasonable amount for a first time. After that, he flopped down on the couch with Natasha and Wanda, who were making out in a way that suggested they’d forgotten there were other people in the room. Barton was watching them with narrowed eyes from his perch on an armchair that had seen better days and Bucky wished he had a neon sign to hold up that said polyamory was a valid lifestyle choice and they should all just fuck and get it over with.

The drugs took a while to hit Bucky where he lived, though when they did he found himself having an experience both internal and external, which made complete sense in his head as he was having the thoughts, but not when he tried to articulate them out loud.

(He was doing an awful lot of articulating, despite the fact that nobody was listening.)

Time passed. Barton had excellent taste in music, Bucky decided, as he lifted his hand up and studied the lines running underneath his skin. Skin which suddenly seemed quite thin, the veins pulsing in rhythm with the beat.

“Hey, Bucky,” said his hand. Only it wasn’t his hand. Bucky looked up to find some guy standing there.

The guy had a face he knew, though he wasn’t sure from where. He had seen that face...speaking French? Yes, French class. Plausible.

Bucky smiled. Patted the couch in his confusion.

_(Il était petit._

_Il était blond._

_Il était un substitut convenable.)_

Suddenly, he had a lapful of familiarity, though the angles were all messed up. French Class was _passive_ \- kissing only when Bucky kissed, never touching first. Sweet and careful and wrong. Wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

“...sexy,” muttered French Class. There was a hand between Bucky’s legs. He grunted and shied away from the touch. “Aw, hey, what’s up?”

“Dunno,” Bucky replied. He blinked. French Class had Steve’s face. Not Steve’s face. Steve’s face. Fuck no, _not_ Steve’s face. “You’re not...m’gonna take a walk.”

Natasha was outside when he got there, though he couldn’t remember making the trip. She offered him the cigarette she was smoking, and he sat down next to her on the stoop.

“What’s up with that guy?” she asked, smoke curling around her face like a heart.  Bucky reached out, wiping it away, only to find the grey tendrils clung to his arm like vines. Weird.

“French Class?”

Natasha grinned. Shook her head. Her teeth were very white.

“...eve?”

“What?” He’d missed it.

“Steve. He was cool.”

Steve wasn’t _dead_. “Steve’s not dead.”

“I didn’t say he was dead.”

Bucky, becoming convinced he was living in the future and the conversation was happening in the past, handed her back the cigarette. “He’s in Brooklyn.”

“Mmm,” Natasha took a drag, the movement of her hand leaving ripples in the air. “So you’re making out with his twin. You’re such a predictable slut.”

“Hey…” he laughed, eyes heavy when he tried to blink them. Natasha was mean and funny, and he liked it. “Fuck you.”

Natasha cackled like her whole face was possessed before reaching out to muss his hair. Felt nice. He leaned into the touch. “Predictable slut,” she repeated, though Bucky misheard her through his haze.

“Puppy,” he agreed, snapping at her wrist.

Natasha laughed again before smacking him on the nose. “Bad puppy. No treats.”

“Umm,” Bucky reached up to rub his face, stupid and slow about it. “You’re lucid.” The observation was all he could manage, and he didn’t understand how Natasha was capable of holding a conversation while he was missing entire pieces of his evening.

“...two fucking pounds of the shit, idiot.”

“Huh?”

“Come on, dumb puppy.” Her hand was in his hair again, tugging him up, so he followed, happy for the barest hint of attention. “You better sleep it off.”

The next morning he woke up in a tangle of arms and legs. Four bodies, at least. No, five, and Natasha was one of them, her left knee digging into his solar plexus.

God, his head was fucking killing him.

Funny how a few weeks of sober living could bite you in the ass with a vengeance after one crazy night. Or, maybe, possibly, he’d overdone it.

Groaning, he extricated himself from the pile of bodies on Barton’s bed and surveyed the scene left behind. Natasha, check. Wanda, check. Barton, check. Some blond kid he vaguely recognized who…

Oh, shit.

French Class.

At least everyone had their clothes on.

“Hey, man,” greeted Clint’s roommate when Bucky stumbled out to the living room. The guy, whose name was Peter (maybe?), had seemed very cool the night before. In the cold light of day, he was already annoying. Probably because of the whole headache situation. And because Bucky was beginning to remember how much he’d paid for those goddamn mushrooms.

“Uh, hey,” he replied. “Do you...know where my shoes are?”

“I do not.”

Of course he didn’t.

Bucky’s search for his shoes led him to the rickety balcony, where he found his sneakers tied to one of the slats in the railing. He had no memory of that. Whatever. He untied the knot, rescuing them carefully before sitting down to pull them on.

Dizzy after that much exertion, he took a moment to check his messages, pulling his phone from his pocket. He was relieved to find that it had a whole twenty-three percent battery left. Miracles.

There was a text from Steve on his notification screen:

 

> _Wtf are you talking about?_

 

Shit.

Unlocking the phone, he went directly to the conversation and scrolled up to where it had begun around twelve-thirty in the morning. God, what had he said?

 

> _Whas cool?_

 

> _What?_

 

> _Said cool. Was it?_

 

> _Are you drunk?_

 

> _No. :)_ _  
>  _ _Stov_ _  
>  _ _STOVE_ _  
>  _ _stvev_ _  
>  _ _m pupy slut nat sys_

 

Jesus Christ.

 

> _What does that mean?_

 

> _Mens u sdbe here_

 

> _Go to bed Bucky._

 

> _Ur p_

 

> _Wtf are you talking about?_

 

The last message had come through just after three, which must have been about when he’d passed out. Fucking idiot.

Pulling himself to his feet, he left the detritus of the party behind him and headed for home, shooting Steve a text on his way out of the building.

 

> _I am so sorry. I was a mess last night._

 

He was halfway back to his dorm when the response came.

 

> _It’s fine. Are you okay?_

 

> _Yes. I’m sorry if I worried you._

 

When Steve replied thirty minutes later, it was a complete change of subject, much to Bucky’s relief.

 

> _Do you still want me to come out next weekend?_

 

> _Yes!_

 

> _Cool. Please go drink WATER!_

 

> _K. Sorry. TTYS._

 

It was a week. Less than a week. He could do less than a week if Steve was waiting at the end of it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that it has been one million years since this was last updated! I haven't forgotten about it, I've just been busy. There's a plot and a plan, so it _will_ be completed, I promise! 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com)!


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